The Good of the Few
by roqueclasique
Summary: NINTH in the Drive 'verse. In which we find Dean and Sam wondering if perhaps it does have a brain, after all. Whump, angst, the usual.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story is based on a prompt by Merisha, who has made two incredible illustrations for this story, which can be found at (prepare for wacky 'cause f.f. doesn't allow urls): merisha dot deviantart dot com slash gallery. I would also include her prompt, but I don't want to spoil anything. Though you'll probably figure out soon enough what's happening ;)  
**

**This is the next installment in the Drive 'verse. Hope you enjoy, Merisha**

**ALSO! I am now for sale over at sweet-charity dot net slash auction slash for-sale. I am auctioning of one fic up to 10,000 words based on any prompt you can dream up, in the Drive 'verse or not in the 'verse, doesn't matter. So if there's anything you'd like to see me write, go over and bid for a good cause!  
**

:::

Okay, here's the thing: Sam is really not in the mood to get his ass kicked. _Again. _

But he just can't see any way to stop it from happening.

The right hook comes at his face too fast to block, so he ends up with a fist square across his jaw, slamming his head back so hard he can feel his molars rattle against one another.

He throws a half-hearted cross-jab, but it's deflected easily, and he's got another fist headed towards his eye. He ducks just in time and bobs back up, feels a trickle of blood from where he bit the inside of his lip. He tosses out a weak undercut that's knocked aside before it really gets anywhere at all, and he braces himself for the hit he knows is coming.

Except it doesn't come.

"Dude," Dean says, dropping his hands. "Swear to god. If you don't quit goin' easy on me, I'm gonna give you another black eye. Don't think I won't."

"I'm not going easy on you," Sam protests, lets his own fists drop.

Dean gives a loud, exasperated snort. "Right. Listen, if this were for real, you'd be mincemeat by now."

"No," Sam counters, temper flaring, "If this were for real, I'd kick you in the fuckin' knee, and that would be that."

"So how come you're not kicking, bitch?"

"'Cause I don't wanna hurt you!" Sam explodes before he can stop himself.

"So you _are _going easy on me."

Sam wipes one hand across his chin, takes a moment to examine the streak of red before palming it off against the thigh of his jeans. He takes a deep, measured breath and looks up at Dean, standing across from him in a _come-and-get-me ­_stance that would be a lot more effective if Sam couldn't see his crutches right behind him, propped up against the wall of the alley in which they've chosen to spar.

Or rather, in which _Dean's _chosen to spar. Sam just wants to get a fucking sandwich and get on their way, but Dean's insisted that they stop and throw a couple punches. Which really means that Dean throws punches and Sam takes them, because _of course _he's going easy on Dean. What the hell is he supposed to do, let loose and knock his crippled brother to the concrete ground? Yeah, not gonna happen, no matter how much Dean taunts him, no matter how many black eyes he gets. He'll take a couple shiners in lieu of landing his brother back in the hospital, thanks.

"Sam," Dean says, watching him, voice edging past fake-patience and straight into pissed-off. "You don't hit me, something else is gonna. And I'm not gonna know how to defend myself, because my little brother was too much of a wimp to suck it up and let me have it."

Sam doesn't say anything, and Dean presses on. "Dude, I used to beat you up all the time when we were training. I mean before you turned into a fuckin' Yeti, when I was still twice your size. You think that was fair?"

"No," Sam says sullenly.

"Right. It wasn't. But it taught you how to fight, didn't it?"

Long pause. "I guess."

"Okay. So. What the fuck are you waiting for?"

Sam sighs, resigned, puts his fists up, and knocks Dean on his ass.

:::

Dean's been like this ever since leaving Texas a few weeks ago; full of a strange, almost manic energy that Sam knows is an improvement over his brother's previous dark listlessness, but there's something _off_ about it. It's like Dean's an actor who's been recruited to play himself, and he's done all the research and has all the cues down pat, but still it's just not – quite – right.

But Sam tries to ignore the vague discomfort he feels, because the changes are _good, _for the most part. Dean's started training with renewed energy, doing push-ups and pull-ups every morning 'til his arms give out, and he's been religiously going through his PT exercises at night, even when his face goes white and his hands start to shake and Sam has to physically force him to quit it and go to bed. He's been eating more, too, determinedly pushes food into his mouth whenever Sam puts it in front of him, and Sam thinks he might have started gaining back some of the weight he's lost, which is great. And he really has been making an effort to cut back on his smoking, an effort which has been marginally successful – on a good day he'll smoke less than a pack, though on a bad day Sam still doesn't even want to count. But he's been chewing the gum, and he's started smoking Newport Menthols because he says they taste like shit, and Sam guesses that's a start.

So it's good, this stuff, and Sam has to admit that it's a relief not to feel as if he's got to monitor Dean's caloric intake at every moment, a relief to see his brother treating his body like maybe he does give a shit about it, after all, even though it makes Sam nervous to see how he's been pushing himself lately.

But he's getting pretty sick of being sneak-attacked whenever he comes back with their coffee, and he hates these back-alley sparring sessions Dean forces on him, because he's just not sure how to handle it.

He used to _love _sparring with his brother, even though he got his ass handed to him pretty much every time, because Dean is – was – a fucking master at hand-to-hand, and it was almost like meditation, just getting in the zone and doing his best to give as good as he got. And when he _did _manage to pin Dean, or get in a really good punch – the look of pride on Dean's face was worth the bruises and sore knuckles.

But now – now Dean is the one trying desperately to keep up, to not lose his balance on his good leg and fall over, and Sam's stomach feels like it's bottoming out every time he sees his brother lose yet another battle with his body.

"Okay," Sam says as he hauls Dean up for the fourth time. At least he's pretty much an expert at falling on his good left side, thank god. "Can we go eat, now?"

"Yeah," Dean says, pale-faced but attempting a grin as Sam hands him his crutches. "Maybe we should start doing this on grass, huh?"

Sam rolls his eyes, stuffs his hands in his pockets and slowly follows his brother back out into the street, which is empty and drab under the grey sky, the only spots of color coming from a tattered American flag waving out from a barber shop.

They're in some podunk Ohio town, on their way to Indiana. It's about one p.m., and they've been up since seven, Sam driving while Dean chainsmoked and dozed off-and-on in the passenger seat, zoned out on the muscle relaxants he took to get rid of a particularly nasty cramp that morning.

He seems pretty energized now, though, the slur gone from his voice, and best of all, he's stopped rambling on about flathead screwdrivers and hot-wiring Porsches and the wannabe-model waitress he'd picked up in Missouri a week ago.

"Weird tits," he'd mumbled, chewing on the filter of an unlit cigarette. "Both of 'em pointed left. And if you try and steal a car that way, you're out of your fucking mind, 'cause once the pin-locks are destroyed, you can start that shit with a fingernail."

It would have been kind of funny if it hadn't gone on for a solid hour with no let-up. Sam was half-tempted to pull the car over and shove Dean in the trunk with the weapons, at least until the meds wore off a little.

"Hey," Dean says now, and Sam looks up. "This seem good to you?"

He's stopped in front of a sandwich shop, and Sam scans the windows, surreptitiously trying to figure out if they sell alcohol or not. He's pretty sure they don't.

"Uh, this looks kind of pricey," Sam says. "Eight bucks for a BLT, check out the sign."

"That's fuckin' ridiculous," Dean says, like Sam knew he would. Dean is cheap as shit even when they have money, and they're pretty low on cash at the moment.

"How about that place?" Sam gestures across the street to something that looks more promising, kind of like a tavern, with neon ads for beer lighting up their windows. "I bet they have burgers."

Dean gives him the long, measuring look that Sam's come to recognize only too well, but he just says, "Sounds good," and follows Sam across the crosswalk.

The tavern is more restaurant-y than Sam would have thought, and there's a decent number of people inside, mostly families with miniature buckets of crayons set in front of their furiously scribbling kids.

A whip-thin middle-aged waiter with braces leads them to a booth by a window, and Dean widens his eyes at Sam as the guy walks away.

"Dude," he says. "Why the fuck… I mean, wouldn't you rather have shitty teeth than a mouthful of metal when you're pushing forty?"

"Maybe it's medical," Sam says, scanning the menu for the lowest-priced beer.

"_You're _medical," Dean says, digging around in his pockets and extracting his pack of nicorette, slivering his thumbnail through the foil and popping a piece into his mouth.

The waiter comes back again, flashes them a metallic smile and drops a canister of crayons onto their table with a wink. Sam sees Dean forgive him for the braces and grin back.

"Can I start you boys off with something to drink?" the waiter asks, cocking his head.

"I'll take a Pabst, please," Sam says, and the guy nods, turns to Dean.

"Just water for me, thanks," Dean says pointedly, glares at Sam over the top of his menu, like he does at least once a day. It doesn't seem fair that Dean can only watch the moments where Sam _does _drink, but can't see all the times where he stops himself. Like, he could have been drinking all day, but he's not, is he? No. He's having one beer with lunch, _maybe_ two, but definitely no more than three.

"So we're headed where, again?" Sam asks, trying to distract his glowering brother. "What's the town called?"

"Burkitsville, Indiana," Dean says, puts his menu down and reaches for the crayons. "Dad says if we blink we'll miss it, so we gotta keep our eyes open. Should be there in a couple hours."

"I still don't get why he handed this case to us," Sam says, tapping a finger on the table and peering over Dean's head, wondering where the waiter is with his beer.

"I told you, he said that if we're gonna be hunting, he may as well feel like he's got some say in it."

"Control freak," Sam mutters. "So he's in California, huh?"

"Sacramento," Dean agrees, eyes on the placemat where he's drawing, inexplicably, a purple umbrella. "Lucky bastard. I could use a little fuckin' sunshine."

"Yeah," Sam says, and opens his mouth to say something else, but he's distracted by the return of the waiter. They both order cheeseburgers, and Dean gets onion rings instead of fries, which Sam is glad to see, since it means his brother's thinking about food and not just methodically forcing it down like he normally does.

Sam takes a long drink of his beer, resists the urge to chug it down, 'cause Dean's got an eagle eye fixed menacingly on him. "Don't you think…" Sam starts. "Don't you think it's kind of weird that he's in California?"

"Weird? Why is that weird?"

"I don't know, just… that's the last place we know for _sure _the demon was. We know it was in California." _Killing my girlfriend. _

"Yeah? And?"

"And… don't you think maybe he knows something he's not telling us? Maybe he gave us this case to get us off his back?"

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "No."

"You don't think—"

"I don't," Dean says curtly. "He said he's in California to talk to a guy about the freaky weather stuff, and I really don't have any reason to think he's lying."

Sam tightens his jaw, takes another sip of his beer. Decides it's okay if he finishes this and orders another one when the food comes. If Dean gives him the death stare, tough.

"I just…" Sam shakes his head. "I just want to find this fucking demon. I just want this to be over."

Dean's face softens a little. "Yeah. I know how you feel."

"No, you don't," Sam says, anger surging up and bubbling over. "You were four when mom died, Dean. Jess died _six months ago. _You have no fucking clue how I feel."

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and Sam sees that he scored a hit, so he presses his advantage.

"If all three of us were on this case, it'd go a hell of a lot faster, and we'd be a hell of a lot stronger. I don't like it that Dad is in charge of all the information."

"He's not," Dean points out. "We do research, too."

"Yeah, based on tips _he _throws us," Sam says.

"He said he wouldn't lie, and I believe him," Dean says. "End of story."

"I just don't understand the blind faith you have in the man," Sam says. "After the shit he's pulled… you still don't even so much as _question _him. If he says jump, you just fucking jump."

"You see me jumping?" Dean asks, eyes flashing.

Okay, Sam admits. Bad metaphor. "Well," he presses. "If you're so sure, why don't we go to California and see for ourselves? He promised he wouldn't stop us if we wanted to step in."

"We're not going to California because we're going to Indiana," Dean says, flattens a palm on the tabletop in a controlled gesture that means he's doing his best not to pound a fist. "You saw the data. Couples have been dying in Burkitsville since the eighties, man. Always on the second week of April. And, oh hey, look at that. It's the second week of April. Someone's gonna die this week, Sam, unless we can stop whatever's been killing them. So I get that you want to go to California, but now? Really not good timing."

"Maybe I'll just go by myself, then," Sam says rashly.

"Fine by me," Dean says, but he swallows and his face goes pale. "Get the fuck out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere, you dick," Sam says grumpily, trying not to feel guilty about the stricken look on Dean's face. He wishes his brother knew it was an idle threat, because there's no fucking way he's leaving Dean to hunt alone. Dean's been left behind quite enough, and Sam's not going to be the one to do it. Not this time.

"Then shut the hell up," Dean snaps, and spits his nicorette into his napkin. "I need a cigarette," he says. "If the dude comes while I'm gone, get me a cup of coffee."

He hoists himself to his feet and crutches his way down the aisle, leaves Sam to slump dejectedly down in the booth.

The waiter appears over after a minute or two, puts down their order of buffalo wings. "You kids okay? Can I get you anything else?"

Sam hesitates, then holds up a just-a-minute hand and drains the rest of his beer as the waiter looks on, surprised.

"Yeah," he says when he's finished. "Another one of these, please."

"Coming right up," the guy nods, teeth glinting. "Anything else?"

"Nope," Sam says, smiling wide. "That'll be all."

Dean can order his own damn coffee.

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Apologies for the delay! Again, this is for Merisha, who has done several excellent illustrations for the Drive 'verse. All hail Merisha!**

**:::**

The Impala pulls into Burkitsville around four o'clock, idling by the side of the highway while Sam and Dean have a brief reprise of the argument that's been dogging them since Ohio.

"Dude," Dean says. "The credit cards are blown, and we have what, a hundred dollars cash between us? We can't pick up new cards 'til next Tuesday, and we're not gonna have a chance to do any hustling until we finish this case up. It just doesn't make sense to shoot our whole wad on a motel room, 'specially since we don't know how long we'll be staying. The fuck are we gonna _eat_?"

"Chris Bedford's card is still good for another few days," Sam insists, waggling the platinum Visa at Dean. "I'm _tired, _man, and I never get a good night's sleep when we're in the car with my legs squished up to my chin. We've been driving for thirteen hours; I just want to lie down on a real mattress."

Sam doesn't actually much mind sleeping in the car, but he knows it's murder on his brother's leg, although Dean would never admit it. Nevertheless, Sam can see capitulation lurking behind his eyes, and he knows he's won.

"Fine," Dean says finally, gusting a sigh like it's a big fucking sacrifice. "But we gotta toss the card after tonight. If we get the F.B.I. on our asses, I swear to god, Sam."

Sam nods fervently, trying to conceal his triumph, and Dean snorts, gives a half-amused, half-exasperated eye roll as he pulls the car back out onto the road, fumbles for his nicorette.

Burkitsville is small, not much more than a gas station, a pharmacy, a grocery store, a few restaurants and shops, and a tiny library. The motel Sam's found, via cellphone, is one of two places to stay in the area – the other is a painfully overpriced bed and breakfast called _The Darling Lamb Inn, _which Sam hadn't even bothered mentioning to his brother. The motel, aptly named _Motel, _isn't actually in Burkitsville – it's just outside the town line, in a place called Garrison, but they drive slow through Burkitsville's downtown on the way.

"Jesus," Dean mutters as they cruise the pathetic excuse for a main street. "I'd fuckin' kill myself, living in a place like this."

Sam wants to disagree, but looking around, he's got to admit, Dean has a point. "It'd be pretty hard," he assents. "I mean… what do kids do for fun?"

"They get wasted," Dean answers, like it's obvious, but his voice gets weak at the tail end of _wasted _and he glances nervously at Sam, chomps down on his gum.

Sam doesn't say anything, just drums his fingers on his knee and tries to pretend like he's unaware of the fact that Dean's afraid to mention alcohol in front of him. It pisses him off, especially since he'd just been thinking how badly he'd like a drink right about now, and Dean's making him feel like shit for wanting it. Worse, making him feel like he _should _feel like shit… and maybe he should, he really just doesn't know anymore – it's like the more he tries to figure out how he feels about this, the more confused he gets. All he can say for sure is, he really wants a fucking drink, and yeah, he feels like shit about it.

When they get to the motel, Dean chats up the girl at the front desk while Sam hauls the luggage inside and dumps it in a corner. The motel room is painted a strange, muted yellow, and there are close-up watercolors of buckets adorning each wall. Sam gives a cursory scan for anything suspicious, then falls onto one of the hard beds with a sigh of relief.

He wasn't lying to Dean about beingtired, and the prospect of sleeping cramped in the Impala's front seat makes his bones ache. The bed is hard, but it smells like clean laundry, and the pillowcase is crisp and cool under his cheek. He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to breathe out the tightness in his chest, that pit of anxiety deep in his gut. He forces himself to relax, to loosen his jaw, but it doesn't help. There's an ache behind his eyes, a tugging at the back of his skull that he can't get rid of.

He pushes himself up so he's propped against the headboard, kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up. He can feel the flask of whiskey in his inside jacket pocket, nudging against his chest like it's trying to get his attention, but he just tilts his head back and closes his eyes, thinks that soon they'll get dinner and he can have a few beers then. Soon. He wishes he could say to his brother, Look at me, I need a drink but I'm not going to have one, okay? Don't worry so much.

But he can't say anything.

The door bangs open and Dean shoulders his way in, wriggles a hand free of his crutches to chuck something at Sam's head. It glances off his shoulder and falls into his lap. A Snickers bar.

"Hey, thanks," Sam says, heartfelt, starts to tear the plastic with gusto.

"Vending machine," Dean says, as if that's a synonym for _you're welcome, _and comes over to lie down on his bed, lets out a little groan of relief as he puts his leg up.

"Beds're nice, huh," Sam says smugly, mouth full of chocolate, and gets Dean's jacket thrown at him for his trouble.

"So," Dean says, propping a pillow behind his head and smothering a yawn. "Figure we head into Burkitsville for dinner, start asking some questions 'round town."

"Sounds good," Sam says.

"You gonna be ready to go in about ten minutes?" Dean asks.

"Sure," Sam says, mentally calculating how much time it will be before they can sit down at a restaurant and order. Twenty minutes, at least. Half an hour. Half an hour 'til he can get a beer and make this fucking ache in his head go away.

"Good," Dean says, claps once, rubs his hands together. "I'm gonna have a cigarette. Be back in a few."

Dean pushes himself slowly to his feet and heads outside, while Sam slumps further down into the bed, shivering a little at the chilly air that sweeps into the room as Dean closes the door. He wraps himself in one of the blankets, puts his head on the pillow, and closes his eyes.

He'll just rest for a minute.

:::

When Dean comes back in, he thinks for a minute that Sam's watching some television show about a thunderstorm – then he realizes that rumbling noise is his brother snoring.

Dean grins, starts heading over to pinch Sam's ear or splash some water on his face, but hesitates when he sees how deeply he seems to be sleeping, one hand fisted underneath the pillow, mouth slack.

Dean checks his watch. Five. They've got some time. Maybe he'll let his brother sleep for a while – Sam's been doing most of the driving, which means he hasn't really slept more than an hour in the past sixteen. Kid's gotta be exhausted.

Dean's feeling a little tired himself, wouldn't mind taking his own nap, but figures he should take advantage of Sam's slumber and get some work done.

He palms a Vicodin and follows it down with warm tap water, takes a moment to do some reconnaissance of his leg. His hip is aching, not too bad, but it's pretty stiff from the long drive, and his knee is definitely not happy with him, sends out a steady pulse of pain that feels like it reaches all the way up to his jawline. But it's nothing he can't work with.

He eases himself down onto the floor of the motel, does a few stretching exercises for his hip, and then his knee – leg extensions, heel slides, short arc quads, the kind of stuff he'd done in the hospital. It's kind of heartening, actually, to remember how tough some of this stuff was when he'd first tried it, and how simple it feels now, in comparison. He still can't straighten his knee out all the way, but it's more limber than it was, that's for damn sure.

What he wants – what he really, really wants – is to be able to get himself around without the cane or the crutches. Not walk – he knows that's out of the question. But take a few steps, at least, figure out some way to maneuver himself if he gets stuck in a situation without anything to lean on.

He keeps thinking up scenarios for himself, and it seems more and more urgent that he learn a few coping techniques. What if he gets knocked down in the middle of a field, nothing to hold onto? What if he's locked in a room with no furniture? What if he and Sam get shipwrecked and are washed up on a desert island? He just wants to be prepared.

So after he's done with the regular PT exercises, he does a few of his own invention. Namely, he practices getting up off the ground without the aid of the wall, or a chair, or his crutches. It's tough, but he's getting the hang of it, and his time is going way down. First time he tried, it took him about ten minutes, but in just a few weeks of work, he's got the time down to less than three. The hardest part is ignoring the pain, but Dean's found that it fades pretty quickly once he's up – he just needs to breathe through it, and it's all right.

He attempts a few steps, too, which don't go quite as well. He's perfect this little swivel-step that probably looks as if it's straight of some wacky jazz dance, though he'd prefer not to think about how it looks, because it's ridiculous but effective. He kind of spins himself on the heel of his good foot, and then on the ball, then back down on the heel, keeps his bad leg straight and sort of pushes it out in front of him, like a plow. But it takes fucking forever to get anywhere that way, and Dean's convinced he can find a better technique.

It's really goddamn frustrating, though. Really, really,_ really_ goddamn frustrating. But he tries not to think about that, because it doesn't do him any fucking good, so.

After only about half an hour, Sam still snoring loudly, Dean can feel a fine sheen of cold sweat coating his face, can feel the ache of his hip threaten to turn into something worse if he doesn't watch it, so he does fifty sit-ups and calls it a day. He pushes himself to his feet (two minutes and thirty seconds), then sits down on his bed to take his pants off and put his leg brace on, since he's not sure how much activity they're going to be doing tonight and he'd rather be on the safe side.

He zips up his jeans again, wipes his forehead with a hand that he's disgusted to notice is shaking a little, then allows himself to just sit and breathe and feel like crap for a moment.

Dean has been trying, he really has – trying to make good on the promise he made himself back in Texas, trying his best to hold shit together so Sam doesn't feel like he has to. Trying to work himself back up to normal, or whatever will pass for the new "normal" that he's been forced into. And he's been doing an okay job, he thinks.

He's also pretty sure that the antidepressants he's been taking have kicked in. He doesn't feel so hopeless, anymore, doesn't feel like sitting down in the middle of the road and waiting for a truck to come put him out of his misery. It's not as hard to smile, to make jokes. The only downside is that sometimes he feels… feels just a little too level, caught right in the middle of the spectrum between high and low, and that, paired with the fucking pain meds, makes him feel a bit as if he's just going through the motions of life, like a robot, always kind of spaced out. He knows he tends to overcompensate for that, grinning too wide or talking too loud, but it's better than the alternative.

It's still hard, sometimes, and sometimes he still wakes up in the morning and wants to go straight the fuck back to sleep, but even though the medication isn't the miraculous happy pill he'd kind of been hoping for, it helps. It really does help.

It helps, too, that he can feel his body responding to him properly for the first time in what seems like ages – parts of his body, anyway. He can feel himself building muscle in his arms and torso, can see the results of his workouts in the mirror, and he's been getting laid more often, which, yeah, _thank god. _Dean's never been self-conscious about his appearance, but it's different now, with the crutches and leg brace and the weird way he moves… he still has trouble believing that women aren't freaked out. Grossed out. But – the thing is – they really don't seem to care. They approach him just as much, and are more than willing to submit to a couple experiments until they can find a position that will work for both of them.

The one thing that's a little unnerving is that Dean could swear the average age of the women who hit on him has gone up by about ten years. He doesn't really want to think about what kind of mothering-complex that may suggest, 'cause, nasty.

Though Sam still doesn't seem interested in gettin' any (which is just plain disturbing), Dean is gratified to see that his brother does seem to be responding to Dean's new-and-improved-get-shit-together plan – Sam laughs more, lately, and he's not as high-strung, is less volcanically emotional.

But he's still drinking.

Christ, is he drinking.

Dean glances over at Sam, watches the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. It's only when Sam's asleep, face smoothed out completely, that Dean realizes just how tense his brother is through the day, frown lines furrowing his brow and bracketing his mouth. Dean doesn't know how the fuck to make those lines go away, but he's pretty sure alcohol is not the answer.

He knows Sam keeps a flask of whiskey on him at all times – knows, because he searches his little brother's jacket every damn chance he gets. He doesn't know how much he's drinking when Dean's not looking, but he does know that by the time they turn in for the night, Sam is usually at least eight drinks deep. If not more. They're spaced throughout the day – generally about three beers with lunch, four or five with dinner, and who knows how much he'll drink once they're back at the motel. And despite Dean's best attempts at steering them towards places that don't serve alcohol, Sam always wins.

Because Dean just doesn't know how to deal with this, with his brother's determination, with the stubborn, wounded looks that Sam gives him every time he tries to say anything about it. And he does, he does try – he doesn't hide the fact that he disapproves, that he's worried. But he doesn't know how to just come right out and _talk _about it. That's kind of always Sam's thing, and Sam sure ain't saying anything on this front.

Dean had been hoping it was a – a phase, or something, had been hoping that Sam would get over it, and he's been patiently lying in wait for that moment when Sam looks at the bottle in his hand, says, "Huh," and puts it down, never to touch another drop.

Which, at this point, seems about as likely as Dean dropping his crutches, donning sequins, and doing a dance sequence from _Hair. _

Dean sighs, reaches over to shake his brother awake.

"Bzzuuh?" Sam says, unsticking his face from the pillow, a charming line of drool leaking down his chin. Sam swipes at it, confused, his eyes slowly focusing on Dean.

"Shit," Sam says. "Time 's it?"

"Six," Dean says cheerfully. "Rise and shine, Niagara."

Sam makes a face, sits up, hair going in impossible directions. He grinds the heel of his hands into his eye sockets, makes a pathetic whimpering noise that has Dean's eyes rolling at the same time it sends a little pang through his chest.

"Hey," he says, "if you wanna stay here, get some rest, I can—"

"'M fine," Sam says, lurching upwards, tugging down his t-shirt, looking around blearily for his jacket. "Man. I'm _hungry. _Let's get out of here."

Dean pushes himself to his feet, pats himself down to make sure he's got his cigarettes and wallet. "You wanna freshen up first?"

"Nah," Sam says, then pauses at the pointed look Dean gives his hair. "Uh. Yeah."

"I'll wait outside," Dean smirks, snags his crutches from where they're lying against the bed.

He heads over to the Impala, settles on the hood and lights a cigarette, breathes in the smoke and lets it out into the cool evening air. It's still light out, but he sees a bat flap across the grey sky, duck and swoop like it found exactly the bug it was looking for. The air is damp, and it looks like it's going to rain sometime soon.

Dean takes a drag, makes a face at the mint flavor, thinks maybe he'll just switch back to his regular brand, because as shitty as these taste, he doesn't think they're helping him to smoke less.

This is one area of his life where he's kind of failing – although he's cut back, he still smokes way, way more than he ought to, which is another thing that makes it difficult to speak to Sam about his drinking, since Dean cannot for the life of him smoke less than eighteen cigarettes a day. Eighteen is his record. He doesn't even want to think about what kind of record he's got going on in the opposite direction.

If they drove less, it would be easier. But, jesus, eighteen hours in the car, what the hell is there to do except smoke?

Dean shakes his head, takes a long drag.

Sam comes out, hands shoved in his pockets, hair damp like he'd splashed water on it in an attempt to flatten it down.

"I'll drive," Dean says, drops his cigarette and shoves his crutches into the back, lowers himself into the Impala.

Sam lets the passenger door slam closed too hard, but Dean bites his lip and refrains from commenting, starts the car up and lights another cigarette instead, hangs his elbow out the window as they drive into town.

"So, do we have any leads on what might be taking these couples?"

"Nope," Dean says, flicks ash.

"No remains? Clothes? Bones? Car?"

"Nada."

"So, maybe whatever's been doing this is, like, eating the cars, too."

Dean gives Sam a scornful look. "Right. It must be the amazing Indiana Metal-Eating Monster."

"Well, I mean, come on, don't you think it's weird that not even their cars were found?"

"Yeah," Dean allows. "It's a little weird."

"We should find out if there are any lakes in the area. See if they've been trawled."

"Not a bad idea," Dean says thoughtfully, then flaps a regal hand through the air. "Make a note of that."

"Yes sir," Sam says, clicks an imaginary pen and pretends to scribble on his jeans.

"So," Dean says, easing onto the main street. "Where d'you wanna eat?"

"I don't care," Sam says, shrugging. "Somewhere with food."

"Food, huh? I was thinkin' the hardware store, but, hey, we could do food." He squints. "How 'bout this place? _Scotty's Café._"

Sam follows his gaze, swallows. "Uh, I don't know. A café? I'm not really in the mood for a sandwich. I kind of want… I don't know, pasta."

"So you _do _care," Dean says.

"I just don't want to go to a café," Sam says, shifting uncomfortably.

Dean is silent a moment, then says, as casually as he can manage, "'Cause you think they'll be lacking in the drink selection?"

"What?" Sam says, and there's the face, indignant and angry and just a bit too guilty. "No! I just don't want a fucking sandwich. Christ."

"So if they have pasta, you're in."

"Yeah," Sam says, then yelps as Dean executes an abrupt and arguably dangerous U-turn in the middle of the street, screeches into the parking lot of Scotty's. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell is your problem?"

"Problem?" Dean says, knows he's being obnoxious, but what the fuck ever, they're on a hunt, and Sam's not drinking tonight. "I just have a good feeling about this place. Looks real mom 'n' pop. I'm bettin' they've got some kickass pie, don't you think?"

"I think the only kickassing is gonna be me kicking yours if you keep driving like an epileptic on speed."

Dean grins, turns off the engine. "You wanna wait in the car while I see if they've got spaghetti?"

"I'll check," Sam says, too quickly. "It's my spaghetti."

But Dean's already hauling himself out of the driver's seat, swivel-stepping his way around to open the back and get his crutches.

Sam follows him reluctantly to the door, which jingles as Dean tugs it open. Awesome. A jingler is almost always a sign of pie.

There's only a few other people inside, and most of them seem to be over fifty, save for a young woman and her kids, who are talking excitedly over one another and squabbling for the crayons.

"Sit wherever you please," an older guy with a face like a lemon calls from behind the counter.

"Hey," Dean calls back. "You guys serve pasta in here?"

The guy pauses from where he's wiping a glass display of – yes! – pie. "Pasta? You mean, like, noodles?"

"Noodles," Dean affirms.

"We got macaroni and cheese, and spaghetti with meatballs," the guy says, lowers his gaze again.

"You hear that?" Dean asks Sam over his shoulder, grins brightly. "Noodles."

Sam drops the menu he's been scanning, and forces a smile through his clenched jaw. "Great."

Dean leads them to a table by the window, where he can settle his crutches against the wall, and he leans back, picks up a menu and pretends to examine it, keeps an eye on his brother as Sam shrugs off his jacket.

Sam's flipping through the menu hopelessly, and Dean does his own quick study, ascertains that there's no sign of any alcohol, and he watches as Sam's lips get thinner and thinner.

Lemon-face saunters over, notepad poised. "Can I get you boys started on somethin' to drink?" he asks, eyes on the pad, tone bored.

"Coffee, please," Dean says, offers a smile that isn't returned. Okay, then.

Sam doesn't look at Dean as he says, "You guys, uh, you have any beer, or…?"

"Nope," Lemon-face says, doesn't look up. "This here's a dry county."

Sam swallows with a click, and even though Dean's well aware that his brother's got a little dependency problem, it's still kind of scary to watch the look of sheer panic that flits across Sam's face and disappears as he forces his features into a smile and says, "I'll take a Coke, then."

The guy jots it down, heads back to the counter.

"You think that's Scotty?" Dean asks, turns to Sam, keeps his tone light.

"Dunno," Sam says, smoothes the menu out in front of him with just a little too much force.

"I figure we'll flash the photos around before we go, what do you think?"

"Yeah," Sam says, clearly makes an effort to focus. "Who – what're their names again?"

"Vince and Holly. Dating two years, engaged."

Sam nods. "Okay." He nods again, pushes a hand through his hair. "Is there any correlation between married and unmarried couples?"

Dean mentally shuffles through the stack of photos and data. "Seems pretty random. Some were married, some were dating, some were married but not to one another…"

"Ages?"

"We got everything from twenty to late sixties. Really, the only thing linkin' them together is this town."

"Bizarre," Sam says, looks like he's trying to think of something to say, but instead he returns his gaze to the menu. "Uh, the meatloaf looks good."

"Yeah," Dean says, raises an eyebrow. "Non sequitor, much?"

Sam winces. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm just really hungry. I can't – can we save the hunt talk for later?"

"Sure," Dean says, regards his brother for a moment, watches Sam's fingers twitch nervously through the menu. "Dude," he says gently. "You good?"

"Yeah," Sam says, lets out a breathy half-laugh, though there's nothing happy about it. "I'm fine."

Dean's about to say something direct, about to mention the dry county, about to confront Sam a little — really, he is, but at that moment Maybe-Scotty comes over with the drinks.

"You ready to order?" he asks, setting Sam's Coke down in front of Dean and the coffee in the center of the table between the two of them.

"Spaghetti and meatballs," Sam says, shoves the menu at him.

"Stays on the table," Maybe-Scotty says dismissively, jabs a pen at Dean. "You?"

"Uh, meatloaf," Dean says, puts his menu carefully back on the corner of the table. "Thanks."

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," Sam says as Maybe-Scotty retreats, and he pushes back from the table, reaches down to grab his coat.

"You need your coat in the bathroom?" Dean asks, thinking of the flask he knows is residing in Sam's pocket. He snorts, attempts to joke. "Sammy, I'm sure they've got enough toilet paper."

"Oh," Sam says, releases the coat like he's been burned. "Right. Ha."

He hesitates a moment, but heads towards the back of the restaurant anyway, and Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, lets out a long sigh. The diner chairs are hard, and he shifts uncomfortably, digs the Ziploc bag of Vicodin out of his pocket and tosses one back, stretches his leg out a little and kneads his knee through the denim and around the brace. The exercises are worth it, they really are, but damn, he's sore afterwards. He hopes whatever they're up against is slow, stupid, and goes down fast.

Sam comes back, plops down in the chair with a force that rattles the silverware. "Dude," he says. "You've got to check out the bathroom."

"What? Why?"

"Just trust me," Sam says with a wave of his hand. "Oh man. It's crazy."

"Uh, maybe later," Dean says.

"You could go now before the food comes."

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then leans forward and cocks an eyebrow. "You tryin' to get me away from the table?"

"What?" Sam says, lets out a nervous laugh. "You're crazy, man."

"Yeah, I don't think I am," Dean says.

"I mean, whatever," Sam says, gropes for his Coke. "See the bathroom, don't go see the bathroom, I don't give a shit."

"Okay, then," Dean says, leaning back.

See? He's talking about it. This is him talking about it. And he's cockblocking like a pro – or, bottle blocking, or whatever it's called… there's got to be a word for booze that rhymes with cock… But anyway, the point is, he's doing what he can.

He's used to trying to protect Sam when Sam wants to be protected – it's a lot fucking harder when he's got to fight him every step of the way.

Dean sighs, gropes for the nicorette in his coat pocket. He can't go out for a smoke and leave Sam alone, not right now, but he wants one badly, can feel the surge of nervous energy spreading through his chest and pressing on his stomach. He watches his brother's long fingers drum on the tabletop, feels shitty thinking that maybe Sam's feeling just the same way, with no release.

"Does that stuff taste good?" Sam asks as Dean starts chewing.

Dean considers him. "Wanna try it?"

"Gross, no," Sam says, but then a moment later, "Actually, yeah, kind of. Can I?"

"Go ahead," Dean says, amused, pushes the pack towards his brother, watches as Sam begins to chew. One… two… three…

"Gah," Sam splutters. "Fuck, is it supposed to burn like this?"

"Yup. Means it's working."

"Christ." Sam spits it out into his napkin, pulls a face. "Dean, that's disgusting."

"Hey, don't look at me. I didn't make it."

"It's like eating a shoe. A burning shoe. A burning shoe ashtray."

"You should write to the company. Maybe they'll give you your own commercial."

Sam makes another disgusted face, gulps his Coke. "That's worse than cigarettes."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, because, oh my god, _duh, _so he just shakes his head and tucks the gum into his cheek.

Their food comes out a few minutes later, and they eat in relative silence, focused on their respective dinners. Sam practically inhales his pasta, and Dean makes his steady way through the meatloaf, gives Sam the mashed potatoes that he can't finish. His appetite still isn't what it was, but aside from that, he thinks his stomach shrunk from the weight he lost, because he gets full a hell of a lot quicker, now. Though that's changing as he eats more.

When Maybe-Scotty comes over to clear their plates and drop off the check, Dean and Sam exchange a glance, and Dean says, "Hey."

The guy stops, looks at them.

"You, uh, you Scotty?"

"Yep."

"We were just wondering," Dean says as Sam fumbles the papers out of his man-purse – sorry, _messenger bag _– "if you'd seen these people, by chance."

Scotty takes the fliers, gives a cursory glance to the photos. "Nope. Who are they?"

"Friends of ours. They went missing about a year ago. They passed through somewhere around here, and I've already asked around Scottsburg and Salem, so—"

"Sorry," Scotty says, drops the fliers on the table. "We don't get many strangers around here." The way he says it suggests that strangers may not be entirely welcome. Sam bobs his head, smiles, and Dean nods.

"All right, then. Well. Thanks, Scotty."

They get a couple pieces of apple pie to go, decide to head back to the motel. It's dark, and they're both exhausted, and Dean figures they'll get an early start tomorrow morning.

Sam is quiet in the car, intones monosyllabic answers to all Dean's lame attempts at conversation, so Dean gives up, smokes a cigarette and flips through the radio 'til he finds an old Simon and Garfunkle song he knows Sam likes. After a couple bars, though, he realizes that _The Sounds of Silence _might not have been the best choice, given the circumstances, but Sam doesn't seem to notice the irony.

When they get back to the motel, Sam goes to sit on the edge of the bed, and, after a moment's hesitation, tugs the flask out of his jacket without looking at Dean.

"Sam," Dean says helplessly. "Dude… we're working a job."

"Not tonight, we're not," Sam says, and takes a long swig, barely waits a second before taking another. "Hey, where's that apple pie?"

Dean makes his way over to his own bed, sets the Styrofoam container down on the nightstand. "Sam," he says again.

Sam takes another pull of the flask, turns it over in his hands and turns to face his brother. "What, Dean? What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to _say _shit. I want you to put that down and—"

"Well, I'm not going to, so how about we take another look at the research, then go the bed."

"Sam—"

"Dean."

Dean gives up with an angry huff of breath, and pushes himself up to go dig out the research, all the while crafting should-have-saids in his head.

_Sam, you have to stop drinking._

_Sam, this is dangerous._

_Sam, you're scaring me._

But instead he says nothing.

His leg is kind of making a nuisance of itself and his back is mumbling pain up and down his body, so he strips to his boxers and tugs off his brace, arranges himself on the bed with a pillow under his knee and a couple hot packs across the joint.

Sam watches, then comes to sit next to him, rapidly emptying flask still firmly in one hand, and they spread the paper out to take a look. They sit in silence for a few minutes, then Sam gets up and brings the apple pie over with a couple plastic forks.

"Thanks," Dean says after a moment.

"How's your leg?"

"Fine."

"You take your meds?"

"Yeah."

There's another long silence, nothing but the sound of shuffling paper and the occasional scritch of a pen, until Dean caves.

"This apple pie ain't half bad," he says, and it's not forgiveness, but it's something. "I thought this area was going through some kind of agricultural recession, but the sign said _Local Apples._"

"'S good," Sam agrees, shovels a last forkful into his mouth and squints at the printouts and notes, leans back. "I dunno, man. I'm really not seeing anything."

"Call it a night?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, yawns, the tense line of his shoulders relaxed a little, the flask empty.

"Okay," Dean says. "Okay. Uh, I'm gonna head outside for a minute."

"Right."

Dean doesn't bother putting on his jeans, just shoves his feet into Sam's gargantuan boots and clomps outside in his boxers and leather jacket, grins a little when he imagines how silly he must look. It's cold, the wet wind raising goosebumps on his skin, and the coming rain has settled itself as a deep, heavy ache in his fucked-up leg. It takes a few tries to get his lighter to spark, like it's tired, too, but it finally catches with a weak hiss and a puff of minty smoke.

He leans up against the window of their room, takes a drag of his cigarette and peers through the gap in the curtains. Sam is sitting on his own bed, rooting around in his duffle, and Dean closes his eyes briefly, doesn't really want to see Sam pull out the half-empty bottle of whiskey he knows is resting at the bottom. But he does – pulls it out and takes a drink straight from the bottle, then fumbles for the plastic cup on his nightstand, fills it up.

Dean turns around, tilts his head back against the glass and sighs a wreath of smoke into the damp air.

That's it. Tomorrow, they'll get some leads on this case, wrap things up, and then he'll tell Sam exactly how things are going to be from now on. Tomorrow, he'll sit his brother down and explain, without losing his temper, that the drinking has to stop. That Dean will help, if Sam will let him, but it has. to. stop.

Tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry for the slow updates! This chapter's long, so I hope it makes up for the wait. I love you all!**

The next day dawns chilly and grey, damp air hanging heavy over the rain-slick fields and black motel parking lot. Dean comes awake feeling as if his bones have swollen during the night, and it's a slow process pushing himself up in the bed so he can lean against the headboard and get some painkillers into his system, chasing them down with a swig of tepid water.

The shower shuts off in the bathroom with a groan of pipes, and Sam emerges a few minutes later, jeans-clad, ruffling a towel through his hair.

"Morning," he says, voice bright, but he avoids Dean's gaze as he crosses the room to tug on his t-shirt and flannel.

"Morning," Dean replies, stifles a groan as he pushes himself further up the bed. "How you feelin'?"

"Fine," Sam says in a mildly puzzled tone, like it's a strange question, like he doesn't have dark circles under his eyes and a furrow in his brow that indicates one bitch of a headache. Like he hadn't passed out before eleven o'clock, fully clothed and muttering something about Dad and Jess and California that had Dean's heart growing tight in his chest.

Dean shrugs a little, moves to get his feet over the side of the bed, but it's a mistake and he can't hold back the short grunt of pain as he attempts to get his knee moving. He'd twisted around in his sleep the night before, ended up sleeping on it funny. He suddenly remembers the body pillow that's been taking up residence in the trunk since way back in Lawrence, and he makes a note to dig it out tonight, see if it doesn't help things.

"Hey," Sam says, and Dean looks up, finds him wagging an Actiq under his nose.

"Thanks," Dean says, unwraps the painkiller and tucks it into his cheek, leans back with a resigned sigh. No point trying to move around 'til this kicks in. He reaches for his cigarettes on the night table, rifles through the pack, counts seven and makes a mental note to re-stock when they get into town. Band-aids, too. They're out of band-aids.

Sam comes to sit down across from him on his own bed, pulls on his sneakers and socks with quick, mindless motions that Dean can't help but watch with envy. Usually it doesn't bug him, but sometimes he'll catch Sam performing some daily action, like putting on his shoes or climbing into the car, something easy and thoughtless but something that takes Dean a lot of concentration and a fair amount of pain, and for a couple seconds it's like getting punched in the gut.

Dean clears his throat and looks away, counts his cigarettes again, re-adjusts the Actiq in his cheek and concentrates on the smooth edges of analgesic that he can feel creeping into his body. He's gonna forgo his exercises this morning, just this once, will wait until the evening when he's a little more limber.

"It's gross outside," Sam notes after a long silence.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, tentatively moving around so his legs are over the side of the bed. It's with great relief that he relaxes into the dull glow of the painkillers, even as he can feel his brain growing heavier, slower. He's always the most fucked-up in the mornings, but a cigarette and a cup of coffee does absolute wonders. The sooner he can get up and get those things, the better.

He reaches for his crutches, hoists himself to his feet and heads into the bathroom, leans up against the bars on the wall and takes a long, satisfying piss before he splashes some cold water on his face and brushes his teeth.

His need for a smoke is asserting itself very clearly now, and he hurries to get himself dressed, strapping on his brace and wrestling himself roughly into his jeans. The shoes take some time, as they always do, and he has to take a break halfway through, lean back against the bed and catch his breath.

Sam is watching him out of the corner of his eye, half-heartedly cleaning the already-clean guns and assembling a small day-bag of weapons. Silver knife, extra Glock, rocksalt, holy water, flare gun.

"Shotgun," Dean says. "Just in case."

"I thought we were just asking questions this morning. We can come back to the motel later."

"Shotgun," Dean repeats. "Just in case."

Sam rolls his eyes, but checks to see if the sawed-off is loaded, then squeezes it into the bag as well.

Dean climbs to his feet, crutches over to the table where Sam is, snags his wallet and stuffs it into his back pocket.

There's an empty bottle of whisky on its side by Sam's left arm, and Dean grabs that, too, tosses it with unerring aim into the trashcan across the room. It lands with a loud, shocking thunk that echoes louder than anything neither of them are saying, and Sam zips the weapons bag and looks up at Dean, searching his face.

"You ready?" Dean asks roughly, doesn't wait for an answer, just heads for the door and doesn't look back.

Once outside, he pauses for a moment to get a cigarette lit, and Sam comes out behind him, locks the motel door and stands next to Dean, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

"It's gross today," he says for the second time, and Dean lets out a breath of smoke, tries not to glare at his brother.

"You hungry?" he asks instead, and Sam nods.

:::

They eat at a breakfast place in downtown Burkitsville, across the street from Scotty's. Dean drinks three cups of coffee and picks at his bacon and eggs, while Sam methodically demolishes a stack of blueberry pancakes.

"Dean," Sam says wearily halfway through the meal, and nudges Dean's plate where he's barely touched his breakfast.

Dean feels anger flare up, and he knows it's partially directed at himself, but that doesn't stop him from snapping, "How about you take care of yourself, Sam, and quit worrying about me?"

Sam looks at him for a second, then crooks a wry smile. "Dean, that's what I've been saying to you for the past twenty years."

Dean knows Sam means it lightly, but he feels himself go rigid, anyway, can't help but hear what's really behind Sam's words: _You need taking care of, Dean. You can't take care of me or yourself anymore. _

He tries to force a laugh, but it comes out more like a cough, and he takes a swig of coffee to cover it up. Goddamn, he needs a cigarette, needs twenty, all in a row. It's one of those days, and the day has barely even started. Maybe it's the weather, or that unremitting ache in Dean's leg, or the gelatinous pile of scrambled eggs on Dean's plate. Or maybe it's the fact that his little brother drinks himself into a stupor every night and then pretends like everything's fine the next morning, 'til he starts drinking again that afternoon.

"Sam," Dean says, makes a fist on the table in front of him. "Dude… you can't… you can't keep doin' this, man."

"Doing what?" Sam asks, but he puts his fork down and stares at his near-empty plate.

"Don't play dumb with me," Dean snaps. "You know what I'm talking about. You – you have a problem Sam, and you – _we – _need to deal with it."

"We've talked about this," Sam says, face paling. "We—"

"Yeah," Dean says. "We've talked about it. But it hasn't stopped. It's gotten worse, man, but you're not hiding it anymore, so it seems better, but it's not. It's really fuckin' not, Sam."

"Dean," Sam says. "I don't want to have this conversation right now."

"Then when?" Dean demands. "Next year, when you're getting a liver transplant?"

"Dude, you are completely over-reacting, I—"

"I'm not over-reacting," Dean says tightly. "I know you think you have it under control, but you don't."

Sam shakes his head, drags a hand across his face. "Well, then, I guess we're kind of at a stalemate here, Dean, because I'm telling you it's fine, and you're telling me it's not, and I'm not really sure where the fuck you think this is gonna go."

Dean takes a deep breath, leans forward. "Seriously, Sam. I want you to take a step back and think about this with that ginormous brain of yours, okay? We're in a dry county, man. That means you're not gettin' a drink for at least another two days. So tell me, tell me how that makes you feel, and _then_ tell me that you're fine, that you've got everything under control."

"Dean—"

"Tell me, Sam. I wanna know. Tell me you're okay with that."

"I'm okay with that," Sam grits out through clenched teeth. "I'm not – Jesus, I can go two days, Dean, it's not like I'm – I'll be fine."

"Good, then," Dean says, fed-up with the whole conversation, the whole goddamn situation, and he pushes away his untouched breakfast, signals for the waitress. If Sam's telling the truth and he really will be fine, then, awesome, and if not – well, Dean's not gonna say _I told you so, _but he sure as hell is going to make sure Sam understands it.

Dean doesn't wait for the check to come, just leaves Sam to deal with it and goes outside for a smoke, sits on the damp wooden bench and watches cars and trucks trundle in and out of the gas station across the street. He's partway through his second cigarette when Sam comes out, sipping from a to-go cup of coffee, purposefully, like he wants Dean to see that he specifically didn't bring Dean one.

Dean takes a drag of his cigarette, looks Sam up and down.

"You ready to ask some questions?"

"Yeah," Sam says, huffs a sigh that Dean ignores, dropping his cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with his good foot, then pulling himself upwards to settle himself on his crutches.

They make their way across the street, and it's good there's not too much traffic, because Dean can feel his body moving slower than normal from the damp. Sam shortens his long strides to match Dean's pace, ever-solicitous even when he's pissed off, which kind of pisses Dean off in turn, though he's knows he's being testy and irrational. He takes a deep breath, wills himself to chill out a little, for Sam's sake and for his own. Can't work a case if they're both bristling at one another, and Dean can feel his carefully constructed wall of cool-and-together begin to crumble, which he is _not _about to let happen.

There's an older couple behind the counter at the gas station, which looks like it serves as a coffee shop, too, a couple of old-timers sitting at the counter with steaming mugs in front of them.

"Morning," Dean says, giving them a smile.

"Good morning," the man replies, gives a smile in return. He looks like a pretty nice guy, and his wife offers a sunny smile as well, though she flicks her eyes back and forth a bit suspiciously. Like Scotty said, they don't get strangers too much around here. Dean can see them eyeing his crutches curiously, and he tries not to let his discomfort show as he moves up to the counter.

"Two packs of Camels, please," he says, and waits 'til the man is ringing them up before he says, "Uh, another thing."

He nudges his chin at Sam to get the photos out.

"We're kind of looking for a some friends of ours, disappeared around here a while back," he says, casually pocketing the cigarettes. "Names're Vince and Holly. We were wondering if you'd seen them at all?"

Sam offers the photos and the woman takes them, lays them on the counter to examine, her husband peering over her shoulder.

"Don't look familiar," the woman says with a shake of her head.

Is it Dean's imagination, or does the husband hesitate before echoing her head-shake? "Don't think I've ever seen them," he says, slides the photos across the counter with a rueful look. "Sorry, boys."

"They didn't stop for gas, or anything?" Sam puts in. "This would have been about a year ago, so if you could just think back…"

"Haven't seen them," the woman says, clipped, handing back the photos. Dean reaches out to take them.

"Hang on," a voice says behind them, and a slim arm snakes around to grab the pictures. It's a young girl, sweet-faced and kind of plain, maybe in her early twenties at the most. She tilts her head a little. "This guy, he have a tattoo?"

"Yes, he did," Dean says. "You've seen him?"

"You remember?" the girl asks the older couple. "They were just married."

"Huh," the man says, and recognition sparks in his eyes. "You're right, Emily. They did stop for gas. Weren't here more than ten minutes, though."

"You remember anything else?" Dean asks.

"I told them how to get back on the interstate," the man says. "They left town."

"Could you point us in that same direction?" he asks, Sam nodding beside him.

"Sure," the guy says.

:::

They end up on a country road out in the middle of pretty much nowhere, just miles of orchard spanning away from the pavement. It's pretty, Dean has to admit, and he drives slow, window rolled down, the cold, fresh air breezing in with a few droplets of not-quite-rain.

Sam is quiet next to him, chin on his hand, gazing out at the trees.

"Kind of nice, huh?" Dean asks, exhaling a slow breath of smoke.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, and starts to say something else when the EMF meter goes off in the backseat, startling them both.

"What the—?" Dean says, flicks his cigarette out the window and pulls the car over to the side of the road while Sam reaches around the back and tugs it out of the bag.

"Huh," Sam says.

"Let's get out and take a look," Dean says, and they climb out of the Impala.

It's easier said than done, though – the ground is muddy and uneven, and Dean has to keep stopping to pull his crutches free with a squelch. Sam keeps one hand hovering at his back, and Dean would be annoyed except for the fact that he's kind of worried himself that he's going to do a faceplant onto the wet ground.

The EMF keeps up its steady, warning whirr, so they keep going deeper into the orchard, though all Dean can see is apple trees, and sure, they're kind of gnarly and twisted, but they really don't look _evil. _

"Dude," Sam says suddenly. "Check it out." He raises an arm, and Dean squints through the trees.

"A scarecrow."

"C'mon," Sam says, starts off in its direction, and Dean sighs, unsticks his crutches and does his best to follow.

It's a creepy fuckin' thing, and Dean looks up into its sightless eyes with a slight shudder, takes in the sickle and the patchwork clothing.

"Dude," he says. "You fugly."

Sam snorts a laugh. "Looks kind of like you before your morning coffee."

"Hardee har har," Dean mutters, looks it up and down. Peers at its arm. "Hey, Sam," he says. "Pull that ladder over here and climb up, get a better look at this thing."

Sam complies, plunks the ladder down in front of the scarecrow, goes up 'til he's eye level. "It's even freakier up here, dude," Sam says, looking down at Dean.

"Check out its arm," Dean says, gestures with one of his crutches.

Sam reaches down to push the cloth away from the arm holding the sickle, cocks his head a little. "Huh. Dean, will you—"

But Dean's already gripping the ladder for balance, trying to lean down far enough to scrabble around in Sam's bag and get out the photos of Vince.

"Freaky," Dean says, and passes the photos to Sam, who looks at them for a second, compares the design on Vince's arm with the design on the scarecrow's.

"Nice tat," Dean tells it, and Sam climbs down in a hurry.

"That's fucked up," Sam says, backing away. "Jesus. What the hell?"

Dean gets himself turned around with a minimal amount of trouble, wincing as he pulls his bad leg free of the mud. "An evil scarecrow. Awesome."

Sam shakes his head. "Can we get out of here? It's freaking me out."

"Yeah," Dean says, "yeah, let's head back into town. See if anyone knows anything 'bout this nasty."

He follows Sam back to the car and tosses his brother the keys, slides into the backseat and puts his leg up. If they're going to keep scrambling around, he's got to stretch out a little, rest up, because he's starting to ache again, a dull throb settled in his bones along with the rain.

Right on cue, the alarm on his phone goes off.

"What's that?" Sam asks, swiveling to look.

"Vic time," Dean says, reaching into his pocket with relief, but his ziploc of vicodin is conspicuously absent. "Hey, go into the glove compartment and see if there's a plastic bag with my stuff in there?"

Sam leans over, rummages around obligingly. "Nope. Nada."

"Fuck," Dean mutters, runs a hand through his hair. No big deal, he'll just wait. It's fine.

"We need to go back to the motel?" Sam asks, eyeing him.

"Nah," Dean says. "It's cool."

It's not, though, not really. The pain just gets worse, and Dean closes his eyes with every bump and jolt of the car. When they pull into the gas station, he's slow getting out of the car, and he knows Sam is watching him.

The young girl – Emily – is there, and she's watching him, a worried set to her mouth that dissolves when he gives her a wide smile.

"You're back," she says, looking back and forth between them.

"Never left," Dean says, leans up against the car.

"You still looking for your friends?" she asks, brushing fine blond hair out of her face.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Hey, you mind filling her up there, uh, Emily?"

"Sure," she says, smiling. There's a moment of silence, and then Sam clears his throat.

"So," he says. "You grow up here?"

"I came here when I was thirteen. I lost my parents, car accident. My aunt and uncle took me in."

Sam murmurs a _sorry _as Dean says, stupidly, "They're nice people."

"Everybody's nice here," she says, and Dean barely refrains from wincing at the complete lack of irony in her voice.

"So, what, it's the perfect little town?" He ignores the dirty look Sam shoots him.

Emily laughs a little. "Well, you know, it's the boonies. But I love it. I mean, the towns around us, people are losing their homes, their farms. But here… it's almost like we're blessed."

Dean nods, wondering why, in his line of work, _blessed _almost always means exactly the fuckin' opposite.

"So," Sam says. "I guess you've been all over this place."

"Uh, yeah."

"You've been to the orchards? Seen that scarecrow?"

"Yeah," she says, makes a face. "It creeps me out."

"Understandable," Sam says as Dean chuckles. "Does it belong to someone?"

"Not that I know of. It's been here as long as I can remember."

Sam nods knowingly as Dean's eyes skate around the garage. There's a big red SUV parked up by the garage, and he gestures to it. "That your aunt and uncle's?"

"Nope. Customer. Had some car troubles."

"Guy and a girl?" he asks, and she cocks her head, nods.

"They, uh… they're just hanging around, waiting for their car to get fixed?" Sam asks, clearly trying to make that question as un-sketchy as he can, but Emily doesn't seem to have a suspicious bone in her body.

"Yup," she says with a smile. "They're at Scotty's, having lunch." She finishes filling the tank.

"Thanks," Dean says, and she smiles. "Hey, Sam," he says. "I'm kinda hungry. You?"

"Yeah," Sam says, dimples at Emily, who blushes a little.

Dean mentally shakes his head, wonders if his brother has any idea of the effect he has on girls. Probably not. Then again, Jess was pretty much a stone-cold fox, so, who knows. All he knows is, if Sam's aware of it, he has no interest in using it.

Emily's a little young, though, if not in age, then definitely in spirit. Who the fuck would _love _this town? Seriously. Even if Scotty's does have some damn fine pie.

Speaking of pie, Dean finds, after crossing the street and entering Scotty's, that he really is hungry, and he's definitely grateful for a chance to sit still for a while.

Just like Emily said, there's a couple sitting at one of the tables, a smorgasboard of food in front of them, and Dean and Sam exchange a glance and sit by them.

Dean checks his watch. Hard to believe it's already creeping up towards two, but it is – been about six hours since he last took any painkillers, and it's not going all that well. He can't get comfortable on the hard chairs, and he looks longingly at the booths lining the wall, with their cushioned, roomy seats and padded back.

"You know," Sam says suddenly, "would you mind moving to that booths? I want to be by the window."

Dean knows full well that Sam doesn't give a shit about the window, but he feels a powerful surge of gratitude towards his brother, who knows him well enough to understand how to offer what Dean's too chicken to ask for.

They move over to the booth, still right next to their target couple, and Dean settles back with a sigh, wishes non-smoking regulations would shrivel up and die, wishes he'd brought his fucking painkillers with him. Rookie move.

Sour-mouth Scotty comes over to fill up the couple's water glasses, except his expression is friendly and open, grinning at the couple like he's a different man.

Until he comes over to Dean and Sam, that is, which is when his face settles back into Lemon.

"What'll it be?" he asks grudgingly.

"Two burgers," Dean says, holds up two fingers just in case the jackass can't count without them. "And a coke for me."

"I'll take a root beer," Sam says, and Dean might be looking for shit that isn't there, but he's pretty sure his brother twitches a little at the word _beer. _

Scotty nods, heads off, and Dean glances at Sam, swivels his body so he's facing the couple.

"Hey there," he says, and they look up. "How you guys doin'?"

"Good," the girl smiles, a pretty brunette, way cuter than her skinny-faced boyfriend.

"Just passin' through?" Dean asks.

"Roadtrip," the girl says.

"That right?" Dean asks, reaches over to smack Sam on the arm. "Us too!"

"Yeah?"

Scotty comes over to fill up some cider, gives Dean a disapproving look then glances at Sam and doesn't say anything.

"So," Sam says, flashes those killer dimples. Dean's not really sure it's fair that Sam gets to be smart _and _pretty. Well, at least Dean's prettier. "You heard how great the pie was and just had to stop?"

The girl grins and the guy gives a little laugh.

"Nah," he says. "It's funny, actually. We just stopped for gas, but the dude at the gas station totally saved our lives."

"Yeah?" Sam says, eyes wide, inviting.

"Yeah, one of our brake lines was leaking. We had no idea, but they're fixing it up for us."

"Nice people," Dean says.

"I'll say."

"So," Dean says, "how long 'til you're up and running?"

"Sundown."

"Really?" he looks at Sam, then back at the couple, leans forward a little. "To fix a brake line?"

The guy nods.

"I mean, I know a thing or two about cars – I could probably have you up and running in about an hour. Wouldn't charge you anything."

"Uh," the girl says.

"He's pretty amazing," Sam puts in. "See that black car across the street?"

The guy and girl both crane their heads to look where Sam's gesturing out the window.

"Woah," the guy says with a low whistle. "Nice, dude."

"He's been keeping that thing running since we were fourteen," Sam says. "Our dad was a mechanic. Kind of runs in the family, I guess."

"You'd do it for free?" the girl says, tone doubtful.

"It's good to keep in practice," Dean shrugs. "Haven't had reason to work on my girl in a while. Wouldn't take too long."

She still looks skeptical, but the guy says, "Seriously?" He glances at the girl. "We are running pretty low on funds."

"Yeah," the girl says. "But… no, you know, I'm sorry, but I'd really rather have a mechanic do it."

"Thanks, though," the guy puts in.

"No worries," Dean says, but, yeah, _worries. _People just aren't as cheap and trusting as they used to be.

Scotty appears with their burgers, slaps them down on the table and says, "You know, I think they might prefer to eat in peace."

"No," the guy says, looking puzzled at Scotty's change in tone. "We're just talking. It's fine."

Sam smiles, all sincere and young, and Scotty gives them one last, suspicious look before heading into the back.

"Listen," Dean starts, voice low, about to suggest that they stay the night, stay off the roads, but Sam stomps on his good foot under the table, and Dean turns his words into a cough.

"These are pretty good burgers," Sam says pointedly, as if telling his brother, _enough. _Dean trusts Sam when it comes to these things, like when to shut the fuck up, so he gives a resigned sigh and picks up his burger, takes a bite.

"Yeah," he says. "Not as good as the pie, though."

:::

As soon as the couple leaves, Dean leans forward to talk to Sam, but Sam gives a miniscule shake of his head, gestures for the check.

He waits 'til they're outside to say, "Sorry, dude, I just don't really like Scotty. He's kinda sketch."

"Good call," Dean says.

"I figure, we'll just keep an eye out, follow them when they leave town. Make sure nothing happens."

"Huh," Dean says. "Reasonable. So what're we gonna do 'til then, sit stakeout in front of the gas station? Scotty already thinks we're a couple of freaks."

"Sundown's not for another four hours, at the very least," Sam says. "We can go back to the motel. Or go out of town, see a movie, even."

"We're staying in town," Dean says immediately, because he's not falling for that let's-leave-the-dry-county bullshit. Sure enough, Sam's face falls just a tiny bit, for just a second, but enough that Dean notices.

"Fine," Sam says.

"Let's go back to the motel," Dean says, because if he doesn't take his meds pretty soon, he's not going to be good for much.

Sam hesitates, but says, "Yeah, okay."

They're at the car now, and Dean gives Emily a salute before sliding into the passenger seat of the car, wincing a little as he folds his leg inside. He reaches for his cigarettes as Sam starts the car, backs the Impala out of the gas station and heads for their motel.

Dean pulls in a lungful of smoke, glances at Sam, tense as a wire in the driver's seat, long fingers of one hand smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his jeans.

"You all right?" Dean asks, takes another drag.

"I'm fine. Why? You all right?"

Dean doesn't answer, just takes the cigarette out of his mouth and looks at Sam steadily. Sam pretends like he doesn't notice.

Dean shakes his head, doesn't say anything else, just smokes silently and looks forward to the bitter taste of vicodin in his mouth. He's a fuckin' hypocrite, yeah, yeah, he's been through this with himself before, but at least he's not the one gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

Sam would have started drinking by now, if he could, and it occurs to Dean that this is probably the longest Sam's gone without a drink in at least a month. Which is good, except for how Sam looks completely miserable, chewing so hard on his lower lip that Dean's surprised he's not bleeding. He keeps rubbing his temples like his head hurts, rubbing his chest, kneading through his t-shirt as if he can press the _want _out of himself.

Dean wants to say, _Talk to me, tell me how you're feeling, _but he doesn't, partially because he doesn't really know how to say that kind of thing, and partially because he's afraid of what Sam will answer.

In the motel, Dean goes straight for his meds, then gets himself up onto the bed and leans back while Sam goes to put on the T.V.

"You could clean the guns," Dean suggests, after Sam fidgets for half an hour straight, pacing back and forth from the bathroom to the bed, spasmodically switching channels, drumming on his knees. "It might help to have something to do with your hands."

"Help?" Sam asks blandly, balling his fingers into fists.

"C'mon, dude."

Sam doesn't answer, just stalks over to the window and pulls back the curtains, snaps them closed again. "It's gonna get dark early, tonight, 'cause of the clouds. What time do you think we should head out?"

"Few hours. Six, maybe."

Sam nods, goes to sit back on the bed, and Dean looks away from the way his brother's wound trigger-tight, face a picture of wretchedness.

"I'm gonna go outside for a smoke," Dean says. "Wanna come?"

Sam shakes his head, changes the channel again.

Dean wishes he could think of something to occupy them, wishes they weren't cooped up in this motel room, 'cause it's really not helping Sam one bit.

But when he gets back inside, he's surprised to see his brother in a pair of old gym shorts and a t-shirt, lacing up his sneakers.

"I'm going for a run," Sam says without looking up.

"Good idea," Dean says, though it hurts for a second, knowing that Sam is going the one place there's no way he can follow. But Sam always used to work out his frustration by pounding the pavement, and this'll be good for him. It's pro-active.

Dean used to do that, too, when shit got to be too much for him. God, what he wouldn't give for ten minutes, just enough time to get his heart pumping, to feel his lungs start to burn.

Instead, he goes outside to smoke another cigarette, watches Sam take off from the parking lot and onto the road, head down, like he doesn't care where he's going as long as it's _away. _

Dean does some exercise of his own while Sam's out, a hundred and fifty sit ups, push-ups 'til his arms give out, a few stretches, though his leg's not really up to anything more. Fucking weather's really taking a toll on him.

Sam comes back after about an hour, while Dean's outside pretending that he's not chainsmoking like his life depends on it, instead of the other goddamn way around. Sam's sweaty, flushed, breathing hard, and Dean takes a drag of his cigarette, tries on a smile.

"It do any good?"

Sam looks at him, hesitates, then shakes his head and pushes past and into the room.

Dean finishes his cigarette a few minutes later and then follows.

Sam is on the bed, sweaty, shaggy head between his hands, and he looks up as Dean comes in.

"Dean," he says. "Jesus, I don't…" and Dean moves forward, ready to listen if Sam's gonna talk.

But Sam trails off, stands up. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Hey," Dean says, "Sam." But his brother's already slamming the door, and Dean hears the water go on a few minutes later.

Dean groans, flops down onto the bed hard enough to have him swearing as his bad hip connects with the mattress.

He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes steadily for a couple minutes, just trying to work through the pain.

Instead, he falls asleep.

:::

He wakes up to Sam shaking him, one huge paw on his shoulder, strong and insistent.

"Hey," Dean says blearily, then snaps his eyes open all the way. "Shit, what time is it? How long've I been asleep?"

"Few hours," Sam says. "Sun's about to go down. C'mon, we gotta move."

Dean pushes himself up, and Sam puts a glass of water and the bottle of vicodin in his hand.

"Thanks," Dean says, swallowing. "What've you been doing all this time?"

"Watching Terminator II and trying to convince myself it'd be a really shitty idea to steal your car for a couple hours."

"Yeah," Dean says, surprised at Sam's frankness. "A really shitty idea."

Sam looks like he's going to say something else, but instead he sighs. "Let's go, huh?"

Dean lets Sam help him up, holding onto the wall while his brother leans to get the crutches Dean had let drop to the floor. For a second Dean wishes he could just crawl back into bed, possible freaky scarecrow-monster be damned, but instead he grins at Sam as he hands him his crutches.

"So I guess this makes you Dorothy?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I'm clearly the Tin Man… though I guess you could be the Cowardly Lion, what with that mane you've got goin' on."

Sam laughs, thumps Dean on the chest. "You know the Tin Man thought he was missing a heart, right?"

"That's not what I—"

"Didn't know you were so self-aware, Dean," Sam says, locks the motel door behind them.

Dean retaliates with a crutch to the back of the shin, and Sam stumbles a little, hops the remaining steps to the Impala.

"Ow, you jerk. That hurt."

"The lion roars!" Dean exclaims. "Gimme the keys."

He guesses it shouldn't come as such a surprise when they fly at his face so fast he nearly falls over trying to catch them.

:::

Turns out they don't have to sit stakeout by the side of the road too long. Dean only has time for three cigarettes before the red SUV goes rumbling past, and he tosses his butt out the window and puts the car into gear, goes slow and quiet, following a couple hundred yards and a few minutes behind.

Sure enough, he and Sam come around a turn to catch the headlights of the SUV in their highbeam, pulled off to the side of the road, empty.

"Shit," Sam swears, and Dean yanks the car to the side and climbs out as Sam grapples in the backseat for the bag of weapons.

"You go on ahead," Dean says, accepting the sawed-off Sam offers him, swapping out his crutches for the cane in the trunk so he can have a hand free.

Sam hesitates, but nods, darting into the trees while Dean begins to navigate the muddy ground as fast as he can, muttering a string of curses at his leg and the stupid cane that sinks into the earth at every step.

He hears Sam shout, "Dean!" and his heart goes up into his throat as he quickens his pace, follows the sound of his brother's voice.

There's the crack of a shotgun, and the guy and girl from the diner break through the dark trees into Dean's line of vision.

"Go back to your car," Dean barks, and when they just stare, wide-eyed, he shouts, "Go! Get the fuck out of here!"

They obey, finally, and Dean suddenly sees motion in the trees in front of him, and he raises his shotgun one-armed, is ready when the scarecrow emerges from the blackness and staggers towards him.

He lets off one shot, sees it connect, but the scarecrow doesn't seem fazed, keeps moving steadily towards him.

"Fuck," he swears, does his best to back the fuck up, and there's another shot as Sam appears behind the scarecrow, shotgun at his shoulder.

"Just get the hell out of the orchard," Sam shouts, and Dean would love to, thanks, but he doesn't want to turn his back on the damn thing, and he's not too good at moving backwards. Something else to practice, the detached, rational part of his mind tells him, while the rest of his brain is screaming _Run! Run! _even though he's fully aware that he can't.

So he shoots again, and this time the scarecrow pauses, rears back for long enough for Sam to reach Dean. For a minute, his brother's body obscures Dean's line of sight, and by the time Sam gets to him and turns around, shotgun still raised, the scarecrow is gone.

"Move, move, move," Sam pants out, and Dean turns around as best he can, lets Sam cover his back as he shakes ass out of the orchard and onto the street.

The couple is standing there, eyes wide, huddled behind their big honking vehicle, the girl sobbing a little, the guy not doing too much better.

"What the hell was that?" the guy asks, one arm going protectively around his girlfriend's back, like it's Dean and Sam they should be afraid of.

"Don't ask," Dean says, feels about a thousand times safer as soon as he's got the Impala's sturdy flank behind him, holding him up so he can face the forest, shotgun up, just in case. There's no sign of movement.

"Shoulda let me fix your fuckin' car," Dean snaps when the guy tries to talk again.

"No shit," the girl says through tears, and Dean is startled into a laugh.

"It's not funny," she wails. "Now what the fuck are we gonna do? Our car's broken, it's the middle of the night, and there's some f-f-f-freak w-with a s-s-scalpel trying to—"

"It's a scythe," Sam says.

"I can probably get your car up and running," Dean says. "If you'll let me, that is."

"Thanks," the guy says fervently as the girl says, "Holy shit, yes _please._"

"Sam," Dean says, "can you—?" He waves a hand at the orchard.

"Got it," Sam says, shoulders the shotgun. "Hurry the fuck up, huh?"

Dean gets the maglight out of the trunk, heads over to the SUV and does a quick reconnaissance of the inside of the front hood, which seems fine. He pauses for a moment, thinking, then goes around to driver's seat and opens the door.

"Jesus," he says in disgust. "You're just out of fucking batteries. The fuckers drained your goddamn batteries. You just need a jump."

They hook the wires up in record time, and the couple is roaring away within five minutes, after pressing a hundred dollar bill into Dean's hand. Normally he'd protest, but there's not really time, and hey, they're running on some pretty limited funds, and he and Sam could use the cash.

"You let them pay you?" Sam asks as Dean pulls away from the orchard, glad to leave it alone for the time being.

"We saved their asses," Dean says around the filter of a cigarette, shaking his lighter, trying to get it to spark. They pull onto the highway, a semi roaring past.

Sam is quiet for a moment, then he says in a completely different tone, "It's still early. And we can't do anything 'til we figure out what the hell we're dealing with, so we're basically finished for the night."

"Yeah?" Dean says, lighter catching finally, and he takes a long drag of his cigarette, doesn't want to hear what's coming next. "Your point?"

There's a long silence, and then Sam says, "Please."

His voice is quiet, desperate. "Please, Dean, don't make me say it."

Dean feels his heart press against his ribs, can't speak, just shakes his head mutely.

"Dean. Please. Please, it's only thirty miles to the next county, I checked online, please."

"No," Dean says, feels his voice snag in his throat. "Sam, you said yourself, you could get through—"

"I can't," Sam says, anguish lacing his voice. "Okay? You were right, I can't, and I'm gonna – I feel like I'm drowning, please, Dean, just tonight and we'll talk about it tomorrow, please, please please please…" Sam's voice breaks and he leans forward in the passenger seat, long arms wrapped around his middle, like his center is dissolving and he doesn't know how to keep it together.

"No," Dean manages, even though his little brother is begging him, is coming apart in the seat next to him, even though saying _No _to Sam goes against every fibre of his being. "Sam, no. We can get through this, but you have to—"

"Then let me out," Sam demands, straightening. "Let me out of the fucking car."

"No," Dean says, shocked, tightens his hands on the wheel. "Sam, how the fuck are you going to—"

"Pull over," Sam says, and reaches over for the wheel to quick for Dean to stop him, twists it under his hands, and it's all Dean can do to slam the brake on in time to stop the car on the shoulder. Sam's unbuckling his seat belt and out of the car before Dean can so much as move.

"Sam," Dean shouts out the open window. "Sam, what the fuck are you doing? We're working a fucking case, Sam, get the fuck back in the fucking car."

Sam doesn't move, stands in front of the Impala, shoulders trembling, hands flexing at his sides. Dean flings the door wide, pulls himself out of the car, does his best to hop around to the front, stumbles and catches himself with an elbow on the Impala's hood.

"Sam," Dean says, "look, this is fuckin' pathetic, man, you and me both – it's the middle of the night and this is fuckin' ridiculous, so would you please get back in the fucking car?"

"No," Sam says, raises his chin. "I swear to god I'll be back by morning, Dean, but I need—if you're not gonna drive me, someone else will. I'll call a cab. I'll hitchhike. I don't give a shit, okay, and you don't have to tell me how pathetic it is, because I know, but I just – I can't, I need – if you won't—"

"Fine," Dean says. "Fine, I'm taking off. I will leave your ass, do you hear me? I will."

Sam swallows. "That's what I want you to do."

So Dean does.

:::

Sam watches the Impala drive off, can't really believe what just happened, but nothing's making any sense right now, his head too full of _need need need _to make reality work the way it should, and he thinks that he's never hated himself as much as he does this very moment.

But he also thinks that he's never needed a drink as badly as he does right now, and it's this that propelled him out of the car, barely able to think straight, and he's pretty sure the only way to clear his head is through a bottle, and he knows it's fucked up, and he knows he's gonna have to deal with it in the morning, but right now it's the only thing he can think about and if he doesn't get a drink soon he's afraid of what might happen.

So he sticks out his thumb as soon as he sees headlights in the distance, and when the Ford Prius pulls up next to him and a petite blond girl rolls down the window and asks, "Where to?" Sam doesn't even stop to think it's strange how easily she trusts a perfect stranger.

"Next county," he says, and she grins, pulls back onto the highway with a squeal of tires.

Sam's phone beeps, and he pulls it out, sees a text from Dean.

_Theres crazy fuckin scarecrows out there tell me your safe._

"You're not gonna murder me and throw my body in the orchard, are you?" the girl asks, voice low, teasing, and Sam chokes out a laugh.

"No," he says. "No, you have nothing to worry about."

"Good," she says, flips on the radio to an old Zombies song, and Sam's fingers are shaking a little as he texts Dean back, already thinking of the way the whiskey's going to feel as it slides down his throat.

_Safe. _

Tbc…


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I surprised myself by pounding this chapter out between classes. It's short, but I thought I'd post. Also – please do not hate me.**

**:::**

It turns out that Sam's driver is named Meg, and she's an ex-journalism student from UMass Amherst, two days into a road-trip down to California. She's friendly and chatty and kind of cute, with a strange, lisping voice and sly eyes peeking at him from under short blond bangs. Sam tries to be polite and make conversation, he really does, but he's distracted, eyes glued to the side of the road, peering into the darkness for any neon sign that might indicate a bar or liquor store of some kind.

He needs to get his head to shut the fuck up, because right now it's screaming at him that he's the shittiest person in the entire world, and he's pretty inclined to believe it. He can't stop picturing Dean's face when Sam told him to pull over – disbelief, horror, and a desperation Sam doesn't know if he's ever seen on his brother. It fills Sam with a kind of dull terror, not only because he knows his brother's probably tearing his hair out back at their motel room, but also because he recognizes, in the rational part of his brain that isn't begging for a drink, that this a turning point. And Sam doesn't know where it's going to turn – if he's this messed up after just one fucking day, he doesn't know how the hell he's going to quit drinking, he really doesn't.

The idea of stopping – it scares him. Hell, he's fucking terrified. Lately it feels like the only thing that gets him through the hours is knowing that there's a drink waiting for him on the other side. The thought of giving that up – Sam's fingers dig into the thighs of his jeans just thinking about it. But he's proven to his brother – and, fuck, himself, though he thinks he's known for a while – that this isn't just a beer-with-meals thing anymore. He wants it _all the time. _And once he starts drinking, it's almost impossible to stop. It _hurts. _

"So," Meg says, and he tears his gaze up, tries to focus on her. "Where exactly am I taking you, Sam?"

"Uh," he says, embarrassed. "I'm just – I just need to unwind a little, and – I'm kind of just looking for, I dunno, a bar or something."

"A bar," Meg says, nodding, eyes on the road. "We can do that." She turns then, a little smile lifting the corner of her mouth. "You don't mind if I come along, do you? I could use a little… unwinding… myself."

"Sure," Sam says, forces himself to smile back, though really the last thing he wants is the company of a stranger.

"Awesome," she says, raises her eyebrows a little. "I promise not to cramp your style."

Sam laughs despite himself. "Right," he says. "'Cause I'm all about style."

"Clearly," she grins. "Hitchhiking on the side of the road in the middle of Boringtown, U.S.A., at nine o'clock at night. I'd say you're more sketchy than stylish."

"Hey," Sam points out. "I might be a weirdo, but you're the one who picked up a weirdo… which I'd say makes you even weirder."

"Fair enough," Meg agrees.

"Why did you pick me up?" Sam asks, suddenly curious. "I could have been… I mean, I'm not, but –"

"I was bored," Meg shrugs. "Besides." She gives him a sideways up-and-down glance that has his face flushing. "I'm a _really _good judge of… character."

Sam gives a strained laugh.

"So, what exactly brought you to the side of the road?" Meg asks. "You don't… I mean, you don't have any luggage with you or anything, so you're not hitchhiking anywhere far, are you?"

"Nah," Sam says, wondering how much to tell her. "I'm… I'm on a road trip, too, with my brother, but he's… kind of a homebody. Didn't want to go out. And he didn't want me driving his car if I was gonna be drinking, so…"

"Sounds like a real fun guy," Meg says.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Well."

"That's why I like road-tripping alone," Meg says. "No one telling me what to do, or passing judgment on me. Just me and the road. And, y'know, freaky hitchhikers."

"Yeah," Sam says. "I get that."

"Well, at least your brother doesn't go all militant on your ass when you try and have a little fun, like my family."

"He kinda does," Sam says, feels a brief flare of anger.

"Oh, god," Meg says, makes a face. "I hate proselytizers. We're only young once, that's what I figure. When else are we gonna be able to go out, make loud noises, drink 'til we pass out and wake up fine the next morning, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Seriously." She's got a good point. He's liking her more and more.

"Hey!" Meg says, and swings off onto an exit so quickly Sam grabs at the dashboard.

"Woah," he says, before he can stop himself, and she casts him an amused glance.

"Don't be a party pooper, Sam," she says. "Isn't that what your brother's for?"

Sam doesn't bother mentioning that Dean is pretty much the most reckless driver on the face of the planet.

"I saw a sign," Meg says. "How's the Hot Rocket Bar sound to you?"

"Awesome," Sam says fervently, and feels a little jolt of relief in his stomach, chest clenching in anticipation. He'll just have a few drinks and maybe get a cab back, he doesn't mind paying. Dean will wake up and Sam'll be right there, fresh and ready to go, and Dean won't be able to say anything.

The bar is more crowded than Sam would have imagined it would be on a Tuesday night, but then he realizes it's probably the first bar off the dry county, so it makes sense that it's full of people attempting to escape sobriety. It's dark and smoky and full of the sharp, acrid scent of spilled beer, and Sam has to physically restrain himself from plowing through the crowd towards the bar.

Luckily, however, Meg has no such qualms. She grabs Sam by the hand, which surprises him a little, and starts squirreling her way through the people, Sam muttering _excuse me_s to the people she shoves aside.

The bartender looks up and Sam kind of forgets all propriety for a moment, leans in front of Meg and barks, "Whiskey, double, neat." Then he remembers himself and glances down. "Uh, let me buy you a drink," he says. "For the ride."

"I'll take a Red Stripe," she says, then smiles up at Sam. "Thanks."

"No problem," Sam says, eyes tracking the bartender as he moves to get the drinks.

As soon as the whiskey is in front of him, Sam tosses it back in two gulps, who cares what Meg thinks. It hits the back of his throat with a familiar burn, and Sam feels, for the first time all day, that he's in control. Feels as if life is something he can handle, after all.

"Can I get another?" he asks, ignores the bartender's widened eyes.

"Wow," Meg comments, and he turns, defensive, but she just looks amused and takes a swig of her beer. "It was that kind of day, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, feels unspeakably grateful that it's Meg next to him, and not Dean, who'd be chewing him out right now, for sure.

The bartender places the whiskey down, and Sam forces himself to pick it up slowly, take a small sip.

"You wanna grab a table?" Meg asks. "I need some food, and those onion rings look good."

"Yeah," Sam says. "They do."

:::

Dean's trying his best not to freak out, but yeah, kind of fucking hard, given the givens. He feels helpless, useless, and pacing is out, so he boots up Sam's laptop and starts Googling instead.

He finds a shit-ton of websites, of course: _Intervention 101; Drinking and Family Relations; How to Cope with a Loved One's Alcoholism; 5 Types of Alcoholic… _Sam, he learns, is probably best categorized under the Young Adult Subtype, which accounts for 31.5% of American alcoholics, Dean is interested to find.

He makes a note of this, writes _Young Adult Subtype_ neatly on the top line of a piece of paper, then stares at what he's written for a second and throws his pencil down in disgust. Because Sam isn't a Young Adult Subtype, he's _Sam, _Sammy, and there's no website for How To Get Your Brilliant, Stubborn Little Brother to Quit Drinking and Listen To You.

Dean leans back, rubs his eyes, then reaches for his crutches and leverages himself to his feet. It's funny, but when he's alone he becomes a lot more aware of himself than when it's just him and Sam – Sam has an uncanny way of making everything feel natural, comfortable, and Dean forgets sometimes that it takes him twice as long as normal people to get to his feet and make his way outside to the parking lot. But when he's alone, it all comes rushing back, and it's like everything is amplified – the way he grunts as he pushes himself upwards, the thump of his crutches, how hard it is to push the door open and walk out of it at the same time. The struggle of getting his goddamn cigarette lit without falling over.

He wanders around the corner of the motel to the vending machines outside the office, gets a Coke and sits on the wooden bench to finish his cigarette. The glow of the machine and the light from the parking lot makes the smoke shimmer yellow, the air still damp and misty.

There's the creak of a rusty door, and the pretty blond girl from behind the desk comes out, shivering a little and pulling her jean jacket around her skinny body.

"Hey," she says. "There any way I could bum one of those off you?"

"Sure," Dean says, draws one out and hands it to her, though he feels a little guilty, because she looks young, maybe seventeen. Didn't stop him from flirting a little as they'd checked in, but he didn't mean anything by it, and he feels kinda bad corrupting the youth like this. But he leans over and lights her cigarette anyway, lights another for himself.

She hesitates, standing in front of the bench, and Dean starts a little, gets his crutches out of the way so she can sit down. She smiles, pulls her skirt under her and sits down, takes a drag of the cigarette. Dean takes a sip of his coke.

"So, where's your friend?" she asks, looking around, like Sam'll pop out of the vending machine.

"He went looking for a bar," Dean says ruefully. "Apparently they're pretty hard to find around here."

"Dry county," she nods. "He probably went to the Hot Rocket. That's where they all go."

"Maybe."

"I used to go there, myself, pretty much every night."

Dean raises his eyebrow. She doesn't look old enough to drink. "Not anymore?"

"Nope." She dimples, and suddenly he thinks maybe she's older than she looks, because fine lines appear around her eyes as she smiles. "Eight months sober, last week."

"Oh," Dean says, surprised and a little uncomfortable. "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Uh," he says. "If you don't mind me asking. How old are you?"

She laughs. "I know, I look real young, right? But I'm twenty-four."

_Young Adult Subtype, _Dean thinks, then feels his face get hot as he realizes that he said it aloud.

"That's what they tell me," she says, looking at him curiously, then grins. "You too? Is that why you didn't go out with your buddy?"

"Oh, no," Dean says. "I – I'm just tired."

She nods, looks a little disappointed.

"Actually," Dean says, takes a drag and clears his throat, can't believe he's going to talk about this with a complete and total stranger. "Uh, my friend. I'm. I'm a little worried about. That."

The girl tilts her head. "Worried about… sorry, what?"

"That he…" Dean makes the drinking motion with his hand, feels like the lamest jackass in the world. "Worried maybe he's got a problem."

"Oh," she says, her expression clearing. "Uh. That sucks."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Tell me about it." He shifts a little, takes another sip of Coke, another drag off his cigarette. "So, how did you… I mean, did someone… Did you go to meetings, or what?"

The girl gives him an incredulous look, and Dean winces.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Fuck. This is really rude, huh?"

"No, no," she says, flurries her hands a little. "It's just, this stuff is kinda heavy, and I'm no expert, and—what's your name?"

"Dean."

"I'm Leena. Okay, yeah, so, Dean, I'm really not an expert on this. But, you know, they always say, first step is admitting you have a problem. Does your friend—"

"Sam. Brother."

"Shit. Brother. Okay, does your brother, I dunno, does your brother think he drinks too much?"

"I think he knows."

"Does he want to stop?"

Dean considers this. "Doesn't fuckin' seem like it."

Leena grimaces a laugh. "Right. Well. Dean." She blows a speculative smoke ring. "I mean, for me, it was like, I was dating this guy, and he sort of gave me an ultimatum. You know, it's me or the bottle, baby. And I loved him enough to quit." She wiggles a be-jeweled finger. "And now we're married, so, yeah, worked out pretty well, there."

"Pretty sure Sam doesn't wanna marry me."

"Right," Leena giggles. "That'd be a whole different kinda fucked-up, huh?"

Dean coughs a laugh, flicks his cigarette butt and goes for another, offers the pack to Leena.

"Thanks," she says, lets him light it for her. "I was supposed to have quit smoking, too, but, one thing at a time, right?"

"Right," Dean agrees.

"Anyway," she says. "I gotta tell you, it really fucking sucked. I joined AA, got a sponsor, went through a shit-ton of therapy. Fell off the wagon once or twice in those first couple months."

"AA, huh," Dean says. "I don't think it's that bad."

Leena gives him a sympathetic look. "Hate to break it to you, but if you're sittin' here alone, asking some strange chick for advice while he's out drinking, then my guess? Is yeah – it is that bad."

Dean is silent, taps ash onto the ground. AA? Therapy? He and Sam don't really have lives that allow for shit like that. Besides – they should be able to handle it alone. God knows their lives have been fucked-up enough, and neither of them have ever need psychiatric help. Despite several professional recommendations to the contrary. Dean grimaces.

"Just don't get mad at him," Leena says. "'Cause he'll just get mad back. Be… you have to be gentle."

"Okay," Dean says, and for some reason that makes his eyes go suddenly hot, throat closing right up. He turns his head, pretends like he's looking at the vending machine, but he feels Leena's hand come up to his back.

"Hey," she says. "Hey, it'll be okay."

"Yeah," Dean says, maybe a little gruffer than he'd intended, but he's trying to reclaim some fuckin' dignity here. "Yeah, I know, I know. It's just—"

"I get it," Leena says. "I've never been on your end, but… You're looking out for him, clearly. You're there for him. Just keep being there. That's all you can do. He's got to do the rest himself. You know?"

Dean knows. That's why it's so fucking hard.

:::

Four shots and six beers deep, Sam's beginning to wonder why he ever felt so shitty earlier that evening. 'Cause really, not a big deal. So he had a fight with his brother. They're _always _fighting. 'S nothing new. 'S just 'cause Dean's so fuckin' uptight 'n _judgmental _and a fuckin' hypocrite, to boot.

"Two packs a day?" Meg repeats, pert nose wrinkled. "I was wondering why you made my car smell like an ashtray."

"I did?" Sam asks, sniffing the sleeve of his flannel shirt, but it's kind of a useless exercise, since the bar is filled with smoke.

"Yeah, I had you figured for a smoker for sure."

"Oh, fuck, seriously?" Sam sniffs again, then remembers, oh yeah, with the useless. "Jesus. I don't even notice anymore. It's like, _constant. _An' I always feel like 's my fault. 'S like, oh, Sam's _annoying, _I need a _cigarette _before I _explode._"

"Gross," Meg says, finishes her beer with a swallow. "You want another one? My treat."

"You bought the last round," Sam points out.

"That's all right," she says with a smile. "Maybe I'm _trying _to get you drunk, ever thought of that?"

Actually, Sam had thought of that, back when he was still thinking semi-coherently. He's not unaware that Meg is flirting with him, light touches on his sleeve, leaning in too close, her hand on his knee, those sharp eyebrows raising. And Sam keeps meaning to pull back, to sit further away, but the more he's been drinking, the more he's realizing that it feels really fucking nice to be touched.

It feels like a lifetime ago that he had someone he could put his hands on whenever he wanted, someone who would reach out for him unthinkingly, like his body belonged to her, too. Hands in his hair, an ankle hooked around his own, legs casually up on his lap when they watched movies.

It's not even the sex that Sam misses, though, yeah, he misses that too – but the need for simple human touch is even stronger. Dean's never been a hugger, and he's big on the personal-space bubble, though that has necessarily changed a bit with his injury. Sam almost looks forward to the moments when Dean reaches a hand up for help getting out of a chair, or loops his arm around Sam's neck to get up a particularly steep flight of stairs.

Sam feels a hand on the back of his neck, now, warm, and it squeezes a little. "Here you go," Meg says, trails her hand up Sam's head as she puts his beer on the table and sits back down across from him. She's been matching him, drink-for-drink, but she doesn't seem quite as drunk as he his. Well, maybe not _quite _drink-for-drink, but pretty damn close.

"Thanks," Sam says, and then he jumps as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

It's a text from Dean. _Im goin to bed where r u il come get u._

"Is that your brother?" Meg asks, leaning over a little.

"Yeah," Sam says, touches the screen of his phone. Dean's not so bad.

"He's gonna come get you," she reads in a slightly mocking tone. "Jesus, he really is a control freak, isn't he? It's like high school, your brother driving you all over the place."

That is a pretty accurate description of Sam's high school career, and just like that, he's pissed at Dean all over again.

"No offense, Sam," Meg continues, "but your brother really seems like kind of a martyr, all noble suffering and shit."

"No," Sam protests, gropes for his beer. "He's just…"

"Overprotective?"

That. "Yeah."

"I'm telling you, Sam," Meg says. "You should cut him loose. Be free, like me."

Sam squints down at the phone. "I gotta…"

Somehow Meg isn't sitting across from him anymore. Somehow she's next to him, a hand creeping up to his neck, one finger down his collar. "Tell him you've got another ride."

Sam can't help but shiver a little as she drags a sharp nail up across his jaw. God, it shouldn't feel so good, but it _does. _"You've been drinking," he points out. "You can't drive."

"I'm gonna get a room at the Best Western across the street," Meg says, her mouth very close to his ear. "And you can share it, if you want."

Sam balks, squeezes his eyes shut. "Meg," he says. "I… I have a girlfriend."

"You _had _a girlfriend," she corrects, and Sam tries to remember what he told her about Jess. If only he weren't so fucking _drunk. _ He'd wish he were a little more sober, but he has reasonable evidence to assume he wouldn't like that much, either.

"I had a girlfriend," he agrees, realizes that his voice is barely audible, clears his throat. "But I still love her. An' Dean… I have to… my brother, tomorrow morning…"

"I can drive you home in the morning," Meg says, moving even closer. "C'mon, Sam, what do you say?"

"I—" he says, and turns to look at her. That's when she leans forward and seals her mouth over his, and he, god help him, he's leaning into it, letting her part his lips with her tongue, lick into his mouth with a little moan that sends a jolt down his spine, and her hands are reaching under his shirt, and it feel so _good _to feel skin against his own, so good, and he realizes that he's got his fingers fisted in her hair, and Christ, that feels good too, and she tastes like beer and onion rings and something he can't account for, something fiery and deep, and Sam's head is spinning, he's so fucking drunk, and unhappy, and he just wants, for one night, wants someone to hold onto, wants someone to hold onto him, and –

"Yeah," he breathes into her mouth, "yeah, okay."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait!!! **LOVE.**

:::

Sam awakes to find himself curled up shirtless in the backseat of a mid-size car, a headache pounding through his temples and a cramp singing its way up his calf.

He pushes himself to sit up, tries to relax his muscles to ease the cramp, but the last thing he feels is _relaxed. _Where the fuck is he? Where the fuck is his shirt? Whose fucking car is this?

He takes a steadying breath, forces himself calm, sweat leaping out on his brow. Okay, the car, he knows the car. It must be Meg's car: he remembers Meg. He remembers fighting with Dean, remembers the drive to the bar, remembers drinking, and eating onion rings, and drinking, and – kissing – and – that's where he blanks out.

Sam puts a hand to his mouth, licks his lips. They feel a little swollen, like someone had been sucking on them, and when he looks down he sees a hickey imprinted on his chest. He touches it and feels bile rise in the back of his throat, feels overwhelmingly guilty and wrong. It's one thing to kiss another girl, because Jess is – Jess is dead, he knows that, and he figured that yeah, someday he'd probably touch someone else – but – but god, not like this. Not wasted at some random bar, with some random girl who'd picked him up on the side of the road. No.

He peers out the window to try and get his bearings, looks out on a big grey sky and a sparse parking lot. His eyes find the building he's in front of and he realizes it's the parking lot for a Best Western hotel, wrinkles his brow in confusion as he remembers Meg saying they were going to get a room. So what the hell is he doing in the car? Though, thank god, because a hotel would mean…

He reaches one tentative hand down his jeans and into boxers, feels for any… evidence… that might tell him whether or not they'd slept together, but there's nothing that gives it away. He doesn't think they did, though he's fully aware that it may be wishful thinking on his part, because he feels dirty and sick just entertaining the possibility.

He peers out the window to try and get his bearings, looks out on a big grey sky and a sparse parking lot. His eyes find the building he's in front of and he realizes it's the parking lot for a Best Western hotel, wrinkles his brow in confusion. So, he did go into the hotel? What the hell.

It's fucked-up to be having this thought, especially after what happened last night, especially so early in the morning, but Sam – god, Sam could really use a drink. Just one, to chase away this fucking hangover, to steady his nerves a little. Jesus, he's in deep, he sees it now, and he feels a thin edge of panic creep through his veins, razor-sharp. It's too early to feel like this, too fucking early…

Fuck, what time _is _it? His brother's gonna _kill _him. With a little jolt of panic, he whips his cellphone out of his pocket, realizes with a certain degree of horror that it's going on eleven o'clock in the morning, which means that Dean's been up for at least two hours already.

Sure enough, there's a red light blinking on his phone which means he's got a text waiting for him, and he flips it open, heart racing.

_The fuck are you._

Shit. That was an hour and a half ago.

Sam flips back through his texts, sees with a certain degree of relief that at least he'd texted Dean last night to let him know he wasn't coming back, though he cringes a little when he sees their conversation.

Sam: _Im staying overnight be back in th3 mornigg_

Dean: _Fuck u mean_

Sam: _Girl is a bar_

Dean: _Where r u sam_

Dean: _Sam_

Sam: _Sam_

Dean: _Fuck u im goin to sleep call me_

Sam takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his hair. He needs to call Dean, but first he needs his shirt. He really, really needs his shirt. He starts rummaging around in the car, surprisingly cluttered back here compared to the clean front seat. There's a couple kids toys, which is kind of weird, since he's pretty sure Meg doesn't have kids, but he tosses them aside.

His head is under the back of the front seat when the back door opens, and he looks up so fast he gets a crick in his neck.

Meg is standing there, hip cocked, two cups of coffee in her hands.

"Hey," he says, mind racing. He really has no idea how to handle this situation. God, he's so out of his depth.

"Morning, sunshine," she says, an amused smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "Gotcha some coffee."

"Thanks," he says, and jesus, this is awkward, her leaning into the backseat where he's still folded half-naked. He takes the coffee, clears his throat. "Uh—"

"If you're wondering why the hell you woke up in the car, it's 'cause you passed out in here and I couldn't wake you up," Meg says. "And I sure as hell wasn't about to carry you – you're a freakin' giant, Sam."

"Oh," Sam says, laughs a little, strained. This would be a great moment to try and re-gather some dignity, but that ain't gonna happen, because the next question really has to be: "Um, do you know where my – my shirt is?"

"Right here," Meg says, opens the front door and leans over into the passenger seat, rummages around for a moment and comes up with his t-shirt and flannel, wadded into a ball.

"Thanks," Sam says, hesitates before tugging them both on and climbing uncomfortably out of the car. "I'm… I'm really sorry about that. Shit, I—"

"Hey," Meg says, puts up a hand and grins. "It's fine, Sam. Happens to the best of us, right?"

"I… I guess." He relaxes a little, takes a sip of his coffee, can't help wishing it were something stronger. She seems okay, at ease, and he doesn't want to wreck that. But he's gotta know. "Listen, Meg, did we… I don't remember if… just, did we—"

"Did we fuck?"

He winces at her frank tone.

She giggles, a little meanly. "No, Sam, we didn't. Unfortunately for you, you passed out before I could even get your pants off. We made out for a while in the back seat, did a little groping, and then you went down on me – which, thanks: I haven't come like that since David Wheeler back in '03. But then – bam, you were out like a light."

Sam gapes a little. He doesn't remember her being quite this blunt.

"Anyway," she says, taps her foot a little. "You wanna get some breakfast?"

"I really have to – I really should get back to my brother."

"I really should get back to my brother," she teases, a harsh edge to her tone that he didn't notice last night – but her face softens as Sam feels his body stiffen a little. "Oh, shit – don't mind me, I'm just really not a morning person. I promised I'd take you back, and I will. But you have to let me buy you breakfast when we get into town."

"Um," Sam says, and he really should say no, but he feels pretty shitty about the whole situation: her picking him up, him getting embarrassingly wasted at the bar, and then passing out on her, in her car… he owes her breakfast, at least. "Okay. I've just gotta call my brother, first."

"Why doesn't he join us?" Meg asks innocently. "It'll be fun. Me 'n' a coupla Winchesters, all cozy in one booth. Can I sit in the middle?"

Sam's heart skips a beat when she says his last name – Jesus, he was so drunk he told her the fucking _truth?_

"Uh," he says. "I think he's busy."

She gives a little pout, but slides into the front seat. "Come on," she says. "You can call him on the road."

Sam reluctantly climbs in. He knows he's gonna get an earful and he doesn't want Meg to hear Dean yelling at him, but he also doesn't want to inconvenience her any more than he already has.

She starts the car and Sam pulls out his cellphone, flips it open. He sees, as he begins to dial, that his hands are trembling pretty badly, something he's noticed frequently happens in the mornings. He glances over at Meg, embarrassed, to see if she's watching, but her eyes are on the road.

He turns the volume way down as he hits _talk _and raises the phone to his ear, and Dean's voice, when it comes, is tinny down the phone line, a bizarre parody of anger.

"Where the fuck are you?" Dean barks quietly, though he's probably hollering on the other end.

"Um, I'm coming back right now," Sam says. "Sorry, man, I'm really sorry, I—"

"It's okay," Dean says abruptly, and Sam has to turn the volume up a little because his brother's voice has gone suddenly back to normal, though there's a tense, steely edge, like he's working really hard at not yelling. "Dude, it's okay. Just get the hell back here. We gotta talk, Sam."

"I know," Sam winces. "I know. But listen, I –" god, he wishes Meg wasn't _right there._ "I'm gonna get something to eat first."

"Yeah, whatever, you've got forty minutes till I'm back in town and you'd better be in that goddamn motel."

"You're not in—"

"We're on a job, Sam, in case you forgot. I'm driving over to the local community college, got an appointment with a professor."

"I'm sorry—"

"I don't need sorry. I just need you to get your ass back here."

"Okay."

Dean exhales long and slow and controlled down the phone line, and Sam can picture him perfectly: cigarette in one hand, the other on the wheel, cellphone tucked up under his ear, jaw tight. They're both quiet for a moment. Finally Dean says, "All right," and hangs up.

Sam snaps the phone shut, rolls his trembling fingers into fists and tries to will them still. He thinks maybe this is the worst he's ever felt.

Meg glances at him sideways. "He pissed?"

"Pretty much."

She nods, reaches into the pocket of her jacket, saying, "I know it's a little early, but you wanna Irish up that coffee? Looks like you could use it."

Sam stares at the flask of whiskey she's offering, tells himself furiously to decline, to shake his head and say _no thanks. _But he can feel tiny tremors through his body, can feel the awful pound of his headache and his guilt and Dean's disappointment, and it's just – it's just too much, right now. This – this would help.

"Yeah," he says, reaches out for it. "Thanks."

Meg grins.

:::

Dean honestly can't remember a time when he was more pissed-off and freaked out. He'd woken up ungodly early, praying Sam would be in the next bed, hoping that he'd stumbled in without Dean noticing – although Dean knows their training would make that pretty much impossible, unless Sam was doing his very best to be stealthy-ninja Sam, which Dean doubts, if his brother was as drunk as he seemed from those text messages.

From what he's gathered, Sam went home from the bar with a _girl_ – which, okay, is something Dean's been trying to get him to do for a while, but this, this just feels _wrong. _It's not like Dean to say this but – Sam wasn't ready, he doesn't think. Not for the kind of wasted one-night stand that Dean's perfected. It's just – it's not in Sam's nature. Dean ribs him about it, but it's kind of just for show, because he knows this. And it's freaky to see his brother acting so out of character.

Dean had done his best to go through the motions of a normal morning – had taken a shower, gotten coffee, done his freakin' exercises – but it was all with a thick claw of worry swiping him in the gut with every move. He hasn't eaten anything, couldn't, and Sam wasn't there to see, to bitch at him, so it doesn't matter anyway.

Dean takes a last drag of his cigarette and flicks it out the open window, pushes down harder on the gas, brings his speed up to ninety even though it's a sixty-mile-an-hour highway. He just wants to get done with this fucking job so he can deal with his brother.

He glances down at the pack of smokes he's got resting in his lap, then grits his teeth and re-adjusts his grip on the wheel. It was full this morning when he'd woken up, but now he's only got two fucking cigarettes left. They're pretty much out of any ready cash, and he's hesitant to use the cards, so he's gotta conserve what he's got. He checks the clock, decides he'll let himself have another only when he's finished talking to the professor. Maybe he should start rolling his own. Would be cheaper.

He's been smoking like a fucking chimney these past couple of days, worried about Sam, about the goddamn scarecrow, all thoughts of cutting back completely sidelined for the moment. And Dean knows it stresses Sam out, and when Sam's stressed, he drinks, so Dean isn't exactly helping on that front. He can't blame the kid, when it comes down to it – who the fuck could handle getting saddled with a dead girlfriend, a demon on the loose, a father who's got the disappearing act down to an art form, and a brother who can barely get his own fucking shoes on without help. Hell, Dean would probably be drinking, himself, if it didn't clash so badly with the goddamn pain meds.

Dean's thought about this before, he has, but maybe – maybe it would be better if he ditched Sam. Not _ditched, _just – gave him some time alone, is all, without Dean's dead weight. Or maybe even if they just took a _real _vacation for a while, a long while – a month, maybe, a month of stillness, where Sam can – can detox, or whatever the fuck, and Dean can stay out of his hair, get some temp work at a garage or something, let Sam hang around all day and read, like he used to do when he was a kid.

Because right now, the fact of the matter is – Dean is kind of fucking _exhausted. _His brother's drinking himself into a stupor every night, sick to death of taking care of Dean's crippled ass; his father's god-knows-where; his leg refuses to give him a fucking break; he's only got two cigarettes left, and to top it off there's a goddamn crazy fucking scarecrow on the loose.

He can't help but snort a laugh, because, yeah, he's been doing this shit his whole life, but sometimes it can still seem so fuckin' ridiculous. Scarecrows? Seriously. What's next, clowns? Sammy'd love that.

Dean slides into the parking lot of the anthropology building, cruises for a space, his windshield wipers twitching slowly back and forth, a pre-emptive strike against the fine mist that's been falling all morning and threatening to turn into real rain.

He hauls himself out of the car, reaches back in for his crutches and locks the door.

There's a crowd of kids huddled under an overhang, smoking, and Dean reminds himself that the sooner he gets this interview done with, the sooner he can have a cigarette. Goals. A man's gotta have goals.

"Excuse me," he says as he approaches, and their eyes all swing to him, flick up and down, pause on the crutches then look quickly away as he shifts, uncomfortable under their gaze.

"Uh," he says, weirdly flustered, because it's really not all that often that he's confronted with a bunch of people his own age. He's never been good at playing the student. That's Sam's gig. "Any of you guys know where Professor Cremer's office is?"

"Yeah," says one girl, damp, curly brown hair sticking to her round forehead. "Fifth floor, room five-oh-two."

"Great, thank you," he says, moves to leave.

"Hey," another kid says tentatively. "Uh, there's an elevator, if you want – but it's kinda hidden. Like, just go down the hall, to the right, behind the vending machines. It sorta looks like some weird door, but you'll see the button."

"Thanks," Dean says, feels his face grow hot, but he gives his best attempt at a grin and turns away towards the heavy glass doors, mapping out the best way to pull them open and get himself inside. He doesn't hesitate for long, used to these brief moments of planning, but it's still long enough for the brown-haired girl to come forward and tug the door open for him, hold it as he edges inside. She's flushed, smiling but not meeting his eyes, not looking at his crutches either, her focus centered determinedly on his jacket, and Dean wishes like hell that Sam were here.

"Thanks," he says, and she returns a quick "No problem!" before the door closes behind him.

The hallway's not crowded, but there are a fair amount of students lining the walls, examining bulletin boards and hefting books onto their hips, chatting animatedly, punctuating their words with laughter. Dean moves carefully through, rounds the corner and finds the elevator just where the kid told him it would be. Pretty thoughtful, in retrospect, even if it was kind of embarrassing.

Professor Cremer isn't hard to find, either, and Dean only has to knock once before the door opens.

"Hey," Dean says, offering his hand. "I'm Jon, Jon Bonham? I called you earlier about coming in to discuss—"

"Local Pagan ideology," Professor Cremer says, shakes Dean's hand and then leans back to let him through. "I remember. Not exactly an everyday research question, is it?"

"Yeah, well," Dean says. "Call it a hobby."

"Have a seat," the professor gestures, and Dean eases himself into the chair sitting across from the professor's desk, props his crutches up between his legs.

"Now," the professor says, steeples his hands together and gives Dean the up-and-down. "You do know that Indiana isn't exactly known for its pagan worship."

"Right," Dean says. "But what if it was imported? You know, like the Pilgrims brought their religion over. Wasn't a lot of this area settled by immigrants?

"Well, yes."

"Like that town near here, Burkitsville. Where are their ancestors from?"

The professor appears to think. "Uh, northern Europe, I believe. Scandinavia."

"So what could you tell me about those Pagan gods?"

Dean watches a vaguely irritated expression flit across the professor's face. "There are hundreds of Norse Gods and Goddesses. I—"

"I'm actually looking for one in particular. Might live in an orchard."

The professor is silent for a moment, and Dean can't tell if he's thinking or just exasperated with Dean's interruption. Dean's used to mouthing off to cops, used to getting the upper hand in those interactions, but professors, he's kind of afraid of. This guy looks mild enough, but there's something a little sharp about him, and when he looks up, Dean feels mild goosebumps break out over his body.

"I think I know where we can look," the Professor says, and stands. "But we have to go down to the third floor." He reaches down to his phone and lifts the receiver, presses a button, maybe to alert people he won't be in his office.

"No problem." Dean pushes himself to his feet and follows the professor out of his carpeted office and into the long, tile-laid hallway. It's quiet up here, just one student waiting outside a professor's office and a hum of voices coming from what Dean takes to be a lounge.

They wait in silence for the elevator, and the professor hangs back to let Dean in first, as Dean murmurs a thank-you.

"What happened?" the professor asks, gesturing to his crutches.

"Car accident a few years back," Dean says, too tired to make up some dramatic story.

"Ah," the professor says, blanching a little, and Dean fights an internal cringe. Why didn't he just say he sprained his goddamn ankle or something? It's the _few years back _that's throwing the guy, the permanence implicit in that. These freakin' forearm crutches are bad enough, a clear sign of _forever_.

The elevator dings and the professor lets them into a wide classroom, and Dean follows as he pulls a book out of a glass-fronted cabinet and brings it up to a table, flips it open.

"Woods god, hm?" he asks, nearly to himself. "Well, let's see."

Dean hitches his good hip onto the table, leans over to look at the pages the professor is turning so fast it's tough to get a read on them.

"Hey," Dean says suddenly, darting out a hand to hold the page He thought he saw – yeah – "Wait, wait, wait. What's this one?"

"Oh, that?" the professor shrugs. "That's not a woods god, per se."

"The V-Vanir?" he looks up to see if he's pronouncing it right, and the professor nods. He reads aloud, more for himself than for the professor. He's always been able to process words better when he reads them aloud.

"The Vanir were Norse gods of protection and prosperity, keeping the local settlements safe from harm. Some villages built effigies of the Vanir in their fields. Other villages practiced human sacrifice. One male, and one female." He taps the picture thoughtfully, grins a little. Got 'im. "Kind of looks like a scarecrow, huh?"

"I suppose."

Dean skims the rest of the paragraph, reads to himself in barely a whisper, just his lips moving.

He looks up. "So this particular Vanir, that's energy sprung from the sacred tree?

"Well, Pagans believed all sorts of things were infused with magic." The professor looks a bit put-off, like he's not sure where the hell Dean is going with this.

"So," Dean says, knows he's gonna sound like a crazy arsonist, but Sam's not around to ask, so, "What would happen if the sacred tree was torched? You think it'd kill the god."

The professor gives him an incredulous look, then forces a laugh. "Son, these are just legends we're discussing."

"Right," Dean says, forces a laugh himself, drums his fingers thoughtfully on the illustration. "Yeah, you're right. Listen, I've gotta take off. But – thank you very much."

"Glad to help," the professor says, waits as Dean collects his crutches and moves towards the door.

The professor reaches out, turns the doorknob, and that's when everything kind of goes to shit.

:::

The Impala's not outside of the motel when Meg and Sam cruise by to check, so Sam reluctantly directs Meg to Scotty's café, scans the parking lot just in case Dean maybe call to get something to eat, though he's pretty sure it's a useless search. Dean'll call him when he's back at the motel, no doubt.

Sam surreptitiously does a breath-check under the guise of coughing, but as far as he can tell, he can't smell the half flask of whiskey he's somehow polished off in the twenty minute car ride. He kind of wants to scream when he thinks about it, and he can't help but think about it – but he can't stop, either, not with the glass of the flask so cool under his sweaty hands, not with the relief he feels when he raises it to his lips. He's – he's so far gone at this point, so fucking confused, that he can't convince himself it matters what he does. Except he needs to get back to Dean. Right now he's kind of feeling about Dean the way he feels when he needs a drink and there's none in sight – as soon as he can get his hands on it, everything will make sense, will slot into place – but it'll also kind of explode.

He doesn't know what Meg must think of him, and he can't decide how much he should really care. One moment he's completely mortified, thinking about the whole situation, and the next he feels so removed from her that it's a little scary. He doesn't know this girl – his problems are with Dean, and with whatever the hell's in that orchard, and with the fact that he's speeding farther and farther away from sobriety with every pull of the flask, and with his father and — well, anyway, Sam's got plenty of fucking problems without adding awkward-one-night-stand to the list. He doesn't even know what he's still doing with her.

Except for the fact that she's funny, and she's not giving him shit about drinking this early, and she doesn't seem to expect anything from him except that he laugh at her jokes and drink her whiskey. Which, okay, Sam can do that.

Scotty's is pretty much empty this morning, and Scotty looks up with a hard, suspicious glance when he and Meg walk in.

And just like that, Sam remembers, _oh yeah, _this is the guy who feeds people apple pie and then sends them straight to their death, oh _fuck_.

How the hell had he forgotten that? He'd been so focused on _Scarecrow? Scarecrow!_ that he'd forgotten there's a human component to this, too. And now he's looking straight at it.

He's pretty sure they're not in danger, but, "Don't get the pie," he whispers in Meg's ear, fighting the urge to turn straight around and get the hell out of there. That would just look too sketchy.

"I'm not really a pie-for-breakfast kinda girl," Meg says, slipping into a booth and kicking her booted feet up on the bench next to Sam. "Why, Sam? You a pie guy?"

"Not really," Sam says, jumping a little as one of her feet slide over and nudge him in the thigh. "I, uh—"

"You're cute, Sam, you know that?" Meg asks, thoughtful. "Even though you're kind of a raging alcoholic."

Sam thinks if he tries to answer that, he might cry, but he's rescued by the appearance of Scotty, dark eyebrows drawn together, pen tapping his pad impatiently.

"Two coffees," Meg says breezily. "I'll take two eggs, over-easy, bacon, homefries and toast. No salt on those homefries, please. Sam?"

"Uh," Sam says, feeling like he's always one step behind this girl. "Pancakes."

Scotty nods, turns around, and Sam blurts, "I'm not an alcoholic." He's not. He drinks too much, yeah, he knows that, but he's not—

Meg raises one eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

"What?" Sam says. "No, I – I'm – listen, Meg, I'm really sorry about last night, but that was – I'm not usually –"

"Relax," Meg says, and her foot nudges him again, prods his hip. "Like I said, you're cute enough to make up for it."

Scotty appears again, plunks down two steaming cups of coffee, and Meg picks hers up, takes a long, lazy gulp. Sam's surprised she's not scalding the skin of her throat off.

Sam blows on the top of his, takes a small sip, just wants to get the hell done with this breakfast, get back to Dean, finish the job, and get the hell out of this town. It feels – everything feels _wrong, _like there's something dark gnawing on the corner of Sam's mind, and he can't quite figure out what it is.

Meg takes another epic glug of the coffee, and Sam takes another tentative sip, prays she isn'g going to try and continue the conversation, because it's really not one he was enjoying very much.

Meg raises her cup again, puts it to her lips, and then all of a sudden stops, puts it down very deliberately. "What the…" she says, blinks.

"What?" Sam says.

Meg shakes her head, as if to clear it, looks at the coffee, then back up at Sam.

"No way," Meg says, her voice slow, almost slurred. "You have got to be fucking kidding me." And then she pitches forward over onto the tabletop.

Sam opens his mouth, about to yell, or something, but then he realizes that everything is swimming, and his tongue won't obey his commands, and his limbs feel like they've been filled with lead.

And then everything goes dark.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the wait! And I know I always say this, but sorry also to not responding to all reviews. As you probably remember, my computer for some reason does not let me respond to reviews on , so if you want me to consistently reply -- which I would love to do! -- I am on LJ and can respond there. *love*

:::

Dean comes to in the back of a police car, curled awkwardly onto his side, hands cuffed behind his back and feet bound together. He can tell immediately from the missing weight at the small of his back that they – whoever _they _are – have taken his gun, and as far as he can tell his pockets are empty, which means they've taken his cell phone, too. He's on his bad side, knee torqued at an excruciating angle and hip pressing painfully into the hard leather of the seat, and he has to clamp his jaw shut to stifle the groan of pain that's trying to fight its way out from between his lips. His stomach is roiling and his head feels swollen, tight, and he's pretty sure he's got a mild concussion.

There are voices coming from the front of the car, and through the metal grill he can see a man in a sheriff's hat, and that goddamned professor. He wants to yell, wants to start cursing, but he knows that isn't going to do a hell of a lot of good and it's better to shut up and grit his teeth and listen to what the fuckers are saying.

"—might not have to be Emily," the sheriff says. "Scotty just called, says he may have an alternative solution after all."

"We can't even be certain that _this _man will be accepted," the professor says. "He's … damaged."

Dean bristles at that, but figures it's pretty stupid to be upset about being passed over for a sacrifice. Hell, he'll show them "damaged." Just fuckin' wait.

"But if he and Em are all we have," the sheriff starts, but is interrupted by the jangle of a cell phone. He looks briefly at the screen. "Scotty," he tells the professor, flips it up and raises it to his ear.

"'Yello."

Dean fucking _hates _people who say _'yello_.

There's a silence and then the sheriff says, "Is that right? Hang on." He turns to the professor. "Looks like we mighta solved one of our problems, at least. Scotty says he found a couple, came into the diner. It's this guy's buddy," he jerks his thumb in the backseat to indicate Dean, "and some little blond gal."

_This guy's buddy… _wait, does he mean _Sam?_ No. No fucking way. Oh, christ, no. He's got to get the fuck out of here, jesus.

"Uh huh," the sheriff says into the phone. "Basement'll be fine. They still out? Uh huh. Be out for a while, huh? Well, what the hell do we do with this one?"

Dean strains to hear, but there's just a tinny voice on the other end of the phone line, no words that he can make out. Fuckin' _great. _

The sheriff hangs up, turns to the professor. "They're puttin' the couple in the cellar of Scotty's barn. He says he doesn't know what to do with this guy."

"Can't we just—" the professor starts, stops. There's an uncomfortable silence, and then he clears his throat, tries, "He was looking for his friends, and the questions he was asking… he _knows, _Alan. I think we ought to just—it's not as if he—"

"We gotta bring it up to the group," the sheriff says firmly. "We never had anything like this before, and you know we don't operate alone. If he we have to kill him, we have to kill him. But if there's another way…" the sheriff shrugs a little.

Thank you, sheriff, Dean thinks. And thank _you, _professor, you bloodthirsty son of a bitch.

There's a bump, and Dean can feel that the car has swung off pavement and onto dirt, the wheels jolting over rough ground. His head pounds where he got hit, and his leg is one huge scream of pain. He shifts, just a little, trying to adjust the angle of his bad knee, but as soon as he moves, he sees the professor whip around to stare at him.

Dean immediately goes into his best "I'm-just-waking-up" act, fluttering his eyelids and moaning, trying to look as dazed as possible.

"What—" he groans, widens his eyes in a parody of shock, pretends like he's just noticed his surroundings. "Where the fuck—?"

"Sorry for this," the professor says, not looking sorry at all.

"Fuck you, _sorry,_" Dean spits. "What the fuck is this all about?" Best to play dumb.

The professor and the sheriff exchange a glance.

"We'll ask the questions," the professor says finally.

Dean struggles for a moment against the ropes, but it just hurts worse, and anyway, what the fuck would he do even if he did manage to get free in the car? Better to wait. Unless they shoot him first, in which case, well, oops.

The sheriff hangs a sharp right at that moment, and Dean's internal monologue is momentarily silenced by pain, his already-bruised head slamming forward into the door. Stars bloom in his vision and his stomach lurches as the door by his head opens, hands fisting in his jacket and hauling him out of the car before he's had a chance to regain his bearings. He's lucid enough to see that there's a fucking shotgun pointed at his head, though.

The professor drags him clumsily out of the seat and dumps him in the mud by the side of the car, half-propped against the wheel, and as soon as he's released Dean struggles as best he can into a sitting position, wrists chafing at the cuffs. They're parked in front of a house, and Dean can see apple trees in the distance.

"Up," the sheriff says, takes a step back and gestures with his gun. "Get up."

"Fuck you," Dean spits. "You tell me why the hell you knocked me out and put a fuckin' gun to my head, then maybe I'll get up."

"Get. Up." The sheriff repeats, points the gun with a little more purpose.

"Fuck. You." Dean repeats back in the same tone, because no fucking way is he gonna admit that he _can't _get up, not with his feet tied together like this, bad leg strapped to the good. Let them just think he's stubborn. He's pretty sure, based on what he heard in the car, that they're not gonna shoot him without talking about it first, so he can afford to backtalk a little.

The professor and the sheriff exchange a look, and the sheriff nods a little, starts forward.

"Neither of us got a problem with shooting you," the sheriff says, handgun bulls-eyed on Dean's face, and he leans down to grab Dean's collar, pulls him up and gives him a hard shake that makes him dizzy all over again. "So do – not – try – anything."

The professor is hanging back, and the sheriff gestures impatiently with his chin. "C'mon, Alan. He ain't gonna do shit. We've got the guns, don't we, boy?"

Dean wants to protest this, but it's true – he's got no weapons, no time to try and jimmy the cuffs, and he can't run away with his legs bound together. Well, can't run, period, but the ropes sure as hell aren't helping.

The professor comes forward reluctantly, grabs his own handful of Dean's collar, rifle tucked awkwardly under his arm. Dean has no doubt the guy knows how to shoot it, but it's clear he doesn't really know how to do much else, and for one split second Dean runs through the different scenarios: he could push up with his legs, head-butt one of them, or he could wait till they start dragging him and then try and pull them down with him – but he's pretty sure that either option would probably mean an immediate bullet to the head, because the sheriff _does _know what he's doing. No, better to wait till they put him – wherever they're gonna put him, hope they leave him alone, let him get these fucking cuffs off and take stock of the situation.

"All right," the sheriff says grimly, and they pull him forward over the ground with twin grunts, hands fisted in his jacket, his knees dragging painfully through the dirt.

"Watch the fuckin' leather," he snaps as they tug him forward. "Swear to god, you rip my coat…"

"Your coat is the last thing you need to be worrying about," the sheriff tells him as they round the front of the car, and Dean sees a wooden building that looks like a cross between a garage and an outhouse, with a concrete foundation and sturdy wooden sides, a huge, padlocked bolt slung over the door.

"This my new home?" Dean asks as the professor releases him to open the door. "'Cause I gotta say, fellas, a home without a garden is no home at all."

"Shut it," the sheriff says, gives him a hard shake that sends stars skimming across his vision. The door swings open and they drag him unceremoniously inside, his bad knee glancing hard off the concrete doorjamb, already-concussed head smacking into the frame.

"Now," the sheriff says, leaning down to unlock the cuffs and re-lock them to a metal pole in the middle of the building, and Dean's too dazed from pain to think about taking advantage of that split-second of freedom. "What brings you to town?"

"Got a bondage kink," Dean spits. "Heard you guys'd deliver."

The blow across his face is not unexpected, but it still hurts like a mother. The second one is worse.

"We're not foolin' around, here," the sheriff hisses. "I think it'd be in your best interest to keep a civil tongue in your head."

Dean licks his lips, tastes blood from where his lower lip's split open. There's silence, the sheriff staring narrow-eyed at Dean, Dean's eyes darting around the room, looking for a weapon, any weapon, but all he sees is sacks of grain and an old, rusted tractor-like machine crouched in the corner, huge wheels, engine exposed in a mess of wires and gears.

"Come on," the professor says suddenly. "We can deal with him later. We've got to prepare for this evening."

"Yeah," the sheriff says, eyes not leaving Dean's face. "Guess you're right."

"What's up tonight?" Dean asks brightly. "Is it a party? 'Cause I love a—" But he's silenced by the swift, measured kick to his bad hip, can't help the harsh gasp it drives from his lips. He doubles over a little, breath forcing itself out in little stutters, and by the time he's composed enough to look up, the men are gone, leaving him alone on the dim, dirty floor.

Which is absolutely fuckin' fine by him. He's got work to do.

:::

"Sam."

"Shuddup, Dean. 'M sleepin'."

"Sam. Sam. Saaaaammmm…"

A finger pokes his cheek, and Sam swats at it, irritated, until he realizes that the finger is too slim to belong to his brother, the voice way too high. That's enough to make him peel back his dry eyelids, try and focus on the face swimming above him.

"Meg?" he slurs, blond hair and pixie face staring down at him. He blinks. Did he – is he drunk? He remembers drinking whiskey, but christ, he didn't think he drank enough to black out. But his head is pounding as if he did, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth, and the last thing he remembers is a forkful of pancake.

"Wakey wakey," Meg says, giving his cheek a last, somewhat painful poke and sitting back on her haunches on the dusty floor.

Wait – the _floor? _"Wha…?" he asks, pushing himself up into a sitting position, head spinning a little with the motion.

"We got roofied," Meg says, giving him a bright, sharp smile.

"_What?_"

"Drugged, Sam. By friendly diner guy. And now…" she opens her hands expansively. "We're in a basement."

"What?" Sam says, mind whirring slowly to life. He and Meg. A guy and girl. Which means… "Oh. Oh, fuck." He staggers to his feet, Meg rocking back to look up at him. "Meg," he says, not wanting to alarm her but needing to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. "Listen, Meg, we have to get out of here. It's – it's not safe."

"No shit, sherlock," she says, not looking particularly worried. "We got _roofied. _There's nothing safe about that."

"No, I mean—" Sam pauses. Trying to explain _murderous scarecrow _isn't gonna do either of them any good, so he revises his plan and nods instead. "Right." He looks around, taking in the situation. They seem to be in an empty cellar, relatively bright though the only light coming in from a tiny, high glass window and streaming through the cracks in the wooden door up a few cement steps.

"Okay," Sam says, heading over to the cement steps, trying to keep his voice calm. Dean. Dean will come. "Meg, don't worry, this is—my brother will notice we're missing, he'll – he'll get us out of here. I'm gonna get us out of here." The door is at a difficult angle above him, but he puts a shoulder to it and pushes as hard as he can. It barely budges. He tries again, with even less success.

Meg is watching him, arms crossed, a little half-smile on her face. "You men," she says, shaking her head. "_I'm gonna get us out of here._ Like I'm just completely helpless in this situation."

Sam turns, brow furrowed, comes down the stairs. Okay, sure, maybe she's got a point, but this isn't exactly the time for an argument about feminism. "I'm sorry, but do you have a better plan?"

Meg takes a few steps towards him. "Well. Apparently we're captive. And you know what animals do in captivity, right?"

Sam is at a loss. "Uh… chew their legs off?"

"No," Meg says, lays a hand on his arm, leans up to his ear, whispers soft. "_They fuck and then they die._"

He recoils, as much from her words as from the strange, hissed tone in which she delivered them. "Jesus _Christ_, Meg!" he says, so disgusted he almost doesn't notice. Almost doesn't notice her slight flinch, the way her eyes go dark and then bright once more. Almost doesn't notice – but he _does. _

His mouth is immediately dry, heart jumped up to twice its regular rhythm, hands clammy. "Christo," he whispers, praying he's wrong, but there's no mistaking it this time: her eyes flick pitch black, and for the first time since he's met her she looks startled, caught off-guard.

"Oops," she says. "That wasn't in the plan."

Sam can feel every muscle of his body tense up at once, but there's nothing he can do, because he's locked in the basement with a fucking _demon _and he has no weapons, no salt, _nothing. _

Meg rolls her eyes, uncrosses her arms. "Aren't you gonna say something?"

Sam swallows. "Who—who are you?"

"I'm Meg," she says, dimples. "Same as I was last night, when you were knuckle deep in my—"

"Stop it," Sam says, knees threatening to buckle, "stop it, jesus, were you – have you been in her this whole time?"

"Yep," Meg says, strokes an appreciative hand up her own body. "Nice, huh? Maybe not quite as pretty as silly little Jess, but—"

"Shut the fuck up," Sam says, hands balling into fists, but there's nothing he can do, nothing except chant "shut up, shut up, you don't know—"

"I don't know? Oh, but I _do. _I've seen her. Those legs, god, I would _kill _for legs like that." She stops, puts a thoughtful finger to her mouth. "In fact, I _have _killed for legs like that. Such a shame, to let such a pretty body turn into blackened_ hamburger_—"

Sam doesn't plan it, but all of a sudden Meg's head is snapping back on her neck, a thin line of blood snaking down her chin, and Sam's knuckles are stinging with the force of his punch. Oh god. That was it. His last move before he dies.

"Sam," Meg says, laughing, wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the blood across her cheek, and all of a sudden it is painfully clear just how human she isn't. Sam doesn't know how he could have been so blind. "That _hurt._"

"What do you want?" Sam asks through gritted teeth.

"You don't know?" Meg leers, and grins when Sam blanches. "Oh, please. Your virtue's safe with me. Last night was a bonus, not the main event."

Sam tightens his mouth, wills himself to stay silent. He can hear Dean in his head: _The thing about evil sonsabitches is they love to fuckin' monologue. Just keep quiet and you won't have to ask any questions. _

Sure enough, when Sam doesn't ask, Meg says, "The _real _event is a fiesta, just for you, Sam. With party hats, and maybe a piñata full of booze. Your brother's not invited, of course, but you and I both know he's such a _spoilsport _anyway. Bossing you around, nagging you about your bad habits…" She's circling now, like a cat, and Sam moves his body with her, keeps his eyes on her, fear making it difficult to breathe. "But don't worry. At _our _party you can drink as much as you want. You can drink until you _drown _in it." She smiles. "I like that idea. Don't you?"

Sam is silent.

"Bet you want a drink right now," Meg continues. "I bet you're _aching _for it. Who can blame you – Jess is barbecue, father's left you in the dust, and you know you can't ever go back to how it was, all those adorable little collegiate aspirations up in flames with your pretty girlfriend…You tried so hard to get out, and now you're stuck." She raises her eyebrows. "Is it true what they say about your brother? Rumor on the rumor mill is he's out of commission. Crippled. Can't protect you now, Sam… no one can protect you. It's up to _you_ to protect him now_, _Sam, and you're doing such a shitty job of it, tsk tsk tsk…"

"What do you want?" Sam grits out against his will, just wants her to shut up.

"I _want _to tear your face off and feed you your own eyelids," Meg snarls, her face contorting in a mask of animal hunger before it settles quickly back into human girl. "But I won't. It's not my call, unfortunately. But I can tell you this – the pain your brother's in now? Is _nothing _compared to what you'll be watching him feel. Hell… maybe you'll help inflict it. I mean, even more so than you already _are..._"

Sam's hands are shaking but his voice is strong. "My brother is gonna clean the floor with your brains, you fucking—"

He's silenced with a kick to his chest so hard he can _hear _his bones crack, and he goes flying backwards, hits the back of his head on the hard floor of the cellar and his vision tunnels in and out for a moment. And then Meg is on top of him, straddling his hips and pressing the heel of her hand into his cracked – maybe broken – ribs.

"Remember this?" she asks conversationally, strokes one hand down his face as he gasps in pain. "Oh, that's right – you were too drunk to remember." She lowers her face to his, places her bloodied lips over his own, and he summons his strength and butts his head up right into her nose, can feel the bone crunching upwards into her skull.

"Fuck," she hisses, snaps her head back, narrows her eyes at Sam. "I _like _this nose, Sam, and you just broke it. Naught, naughty." She pins his arms over his head, leans down to nip at his lower lip, and though he struggles, her grip is like iron around his wrists. "We're gonna get to know each other real well," Meg says. "If my father's right about you. May as well get acquainted now."

She lowers her mouth to his neck, sucks in the tender spot right below his jaw, grinds down onto his dick, and _what the fuck is wrong with him, _because he can feel himself twitch up towards her, and he squeezes his eyes shut, wishes she would just fucking _kill _him, because this, this is—

There's a startled yelp from above, and Sam opens his eyes, sees that the cellar door has opened and the man from the gas-station is framed in the fading light.

"Sorry," he stammers, makes to close it, "Sorry, sorry," but then he's elbowed out of the way and a man in a sheriff's hat takes his place, snorting in exasperation.

"Goddammit, Harley, this ain't the time to get embarrassed." He points his shotgun at Meg and Sam, and Meg smiles up at him, licks her lips, still bloody from where Sam hit her. "Excuse me," he says. "I'm gonna have to interrupt."

"You're not gonna let us fuck one last time?" Meg purrs, and Sam feels like vomiting. So, apparently, does Harley, his long face twisting as the sheriff snorts.

"No," he says. "Get off your boyfriend, slow, and get your hands above your head."

A third man appears from behind him, someone Sam doesn't recognize, and he's got another gun, also pointed at them.

"Okay," Meg says, climbs to her feet, hands above her head. What the fuck is she playing at? She could be out of here in a minute, guns or no guns. Why is she sticking around?

"Up," the sheriff barks at Sam, and he makes to climb to his feet, but pain spikes through his chest and he has to pause, take it slower. God, _god _it hurts. He wraps an arm around his ribs, prays to god that none of them will puncture a lung.

The sheriff pauses as they climb out of the cellar into the grey dusk, lets out a whistle. "Kinky," he says, eyeing Meg's bloody nose and mouth, and she laughs, a terrifying sound, and even the sheriff takes a step back, clears his throat.

"All right," he says. "Let's go."

They walk into the orchard, flanked by three shotguns, hands on their heads, and Sam keeps glancing at Meg, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

"What are you doing?" he hisses once, but he gets jabbed in the back and told to shut up.

"It's fun," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, and grins as the shotgun jabs her, too.

It hurts to lower himself to the ground, and Sam's breath is coming in short gasps by the time he's leaned back up against a tree like he's ordered, hands tied around the trunk, ropes looping all over him. He can't help but cry out when they're pulled tight across his chest, and Meg smirks at him from the next tree, submitting quietly to her own ropes.

_Dean, Dean, where are you Dean, please, please…_

"Don't," Sam chokes to Harley, the man from the gas station, because his long face is remorseful and his touch is gentler than the sheriff. "You don't have to do this. This is murder." _Don't leave me here with her, please, god, please…_

"Yeah," Meg drawls. "You're going to hell."

"It's for the good of the town," Harley says, grim-faced, as he puts the final cinch on Sam's ropes. "I – I am sorry. Truly."

"Then let us go," Sam pleads, but Harley just backs away, and with one last check to the ropes, he and the sheriff melt into the ever-darkening trees.

"They called us kinky," Meg pouts, "but who's tying who, huh?"

She's in ropes. She's tied to a tree, can't move, and even a demon can't bust out in less then ten seconds, and he's had long hours in the passenger seat, nothing to do but memorize, and she's tied to a tree, and ten seconds and he's –

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii_," Sam spits, as fast as he can, and Meg snarls in surprise, narrows her eyes. The ropes around her wrists snap slowly as Sam continues, lightning-quick, "_omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi,"_ and at that Meg lets out a groan, falters as she strains against the ropes fastening her torso to the tree, as they snap one by one. "Eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis—"

"Your brother's gonna pay for this," Meg hisses, arching against the ropes, just two left around her now, "you're gonna watch him scream, you—"

"_Non ultra audeas, serpens callidissime, decipere humanum genus, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum, imperat tibi Deus atissimus—"_

Meg tilts her throat back in a grotesque parody of a scream, and a thick coil of black smoke shoots out of her mouth, jets into the air, and the sick smell of sulfur fills Sam's nose, but he gags out the rest of the Latin, pitching it forward into the night air.

"—_Cui in magna tua superbia te similem haberi adhuc presumis; qui omnes homines vult salvos fieri et ad agnitionem veritaris venire, imperat tibi Deus Pater, imperat tibi Deus Filius!_"

And with one last shriek, the smoke evaporates in a crackle of poison air, the human Meg and Sam both sag down, Sam hanging against his ropes, human Meg slumping down the trunk of the tree, just one loose rope draped around her waist.

Sam's ribs are on fire, and his head feels like it's swollen to the size of a watermelon, but he manages to turn and look at the girl next to him.

"Hey," he rasps, "hey, are you okay?"

She doesn't answer, just lets out a low, gurgled moan, and Sam remembers with sickening clarity the feeling of her nose crunching underneath his forehead. Remembers his father telling him how to kill someone by breaking their nose.

"No," Sam says, "no, no, oh god, are you okay, please, talk to me, please –" he knows he's babbling, but this is too much, tied to a fucking tree with the husk of a demon, a human girl he may have killed, his brother god-knows-where and a murdering scarecrow probably gearing up to gut him right at this moment. And on top of it all, Meg's words still ringing in his ears:_ We're gonna get to know each other real well, if my father's right about you, _and her taunting _Bet you want a drink right now, _and he does, he does, he wants a drink and he wants his brother and he wants this girl next to him to be okay, Christ, he wants her to be okay.

"Please," he says again, watches as a drop of blood falls from her nose into her lap.

She twitches, lets out a low, horrible moan, then turns her head to look at him, eyes wracked with pain. She opens her mouth and he closes his eyes, can't stand to hear it.

"Thank you," she manages. "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"

"Oh," he says, "oh, oh god, you're alive, are you –"

"Be careful," she rasps. "Oh, god, you're…" and her head drops back down again.

"Hey," he says desperately, "hey, hey, hang in there, listen, can you untie me? Can you do that?"

But she doesn't move again, though he can hear her wet, halted breaths, and he groans in despair, head dropping down to his chest, and he casts a desperate glance around, looking for something, anything – but what he sees just makes things worse.

The scarecrow's perch is empty.

Panic jolts through him and he strains at his ropes, cursing, but he's tied fast, and he can feel the grate of his broken ribs, and he thinks for a second he's going to black out from the pain.

That's when he hears it. The hoarse, whining rumble of an engine, a chorus of shouts. Then a gunshot.

What the—

"Sam!"

He doesn't know where the shout comes from, but it's _close, _and it's _Dean, _and Sam kind of loses it for a second, just starts screaming his brother's name, over and over and over.

There's a flicker of light reflected off metal, and through the trees he can see a – a tractor?

Dean, Dean is on top of an ancient, rusted tractor – and Jesus, not even a tractor, it's a freaking _lawn mower, _one of the ones you can ride, and he's coming straight at the tree where Sam's tied.

There's fucking dance party behind him, a small crowd of townspeople waving their arms and their shotguns, another gunshot ringing out, and Sam watches in horror as it buries itself in the red metal of the mower.

Dean pulls up beside the tree and pretty much falls out of the seat of the mower onto the grass next to Sam. He's clutching a shotgun.

"Dean," Sam gasps, "oh man, oh my fucking god, dude, I am so glad to see you, you have no fucking idea, I—"

"Who the hell is that chick?" Dean asks as another gunshot pings on the metal of the mower at his back. He's working at Sam's ropes with a piece of old metal, probably from the mower, and Sam suddenly loves mowers with all of his heart. Is gonna build a shrine to mowers if – _when – _they get out of this.

Sam doesn't answer, because at that moment Harley, the sheriff, and Harley's wife burst through the trees, and Dean snatches up his shotgun.

Harley's the only one with a gun, and it's shaking in his hands.

"You murdering fucks," Dean growls, but he doesn't shoot, because they don't kill people, they don't.

"I'm sorry," Harley stammers, "it's for the good of the town, we have no choice, it's – we have no choice."

"You have to make sacrifices!" shrieks his wife at his side. "You have to make sacrifices in order to—"

But she's cut off with a strangled gasp, and Sam's eyes go wide as he sees the scarecrow's scythe slash through her throat.

Harley screams, but no sooner has he opened his mouth than the scarecrow has hooked him around the shoulders, yanking him down and dragging him into the trees with his wife.

The sheriff fumbles for the shotgun in shock, but Dean is faster, throws himself forward on the ground and grabbing it.

"Get the fuck out of here," he grits out, swinging it up at the sheriff's face, and the sheriff backs away slowly, hands up. Then he turns and runs, leaving Dean panting, sitting in the mud with a shotgun leveraged upward, and Sam slumping against the last of his ropes.

"Dean," Sam says, "the girl, she's hurt, she's – oh holy fuck, Dean, there was a demon in her, and she said this shit about you, and me, and I don't know what the fuck she was doing, following us, but—"

Dean is all business, loosening the last of Sam's ropes and dragging himself over to the girl, cupping her chin in his hand.

"Sam," he says, "let's just get the fuck out of here, huh? Then we'll worry about – did you say demon?"

"Yeah, why are you on a lawnmower?"

"They locked me a fuckin' shed and I hot-wired it," Dean says absently, winces his way closer to Meg, pats her cheek. "Hey, sweetheart? You with me?"

There's just silence, and Dean paws clumsily at her throat, presses his mouth up to her ear. He pulls back a second later, face pale.

"Sam, she's dead. How—?"

"I killed her," Sam whispers. "Oh, Christ, I—I killed her."

Dean just looks at him for a second, then says, "Get up."

Sam can't, though, and Dean pulls himself up painstakingly on the side of the mower, leans on the hood and reaches out his hands to pull Sam up, too, Sam gritting his teeth through the pain in his ribs.

"You okay?" Dean asks, giving him a quick up-and-down.

"I think I broke a few ribs," Sam says, one arm wrapped tight around his chest.

Dean swears quietly. "Get on the fucking mower. We gotta ride this baby to the Impala. God, I hope she's where I left her, took my fucking keys, gonna have to hotwire my own goddamn car..."

"The girl," Sam says. "Meg. I think her name was Meg. God, I don't know, I just—"

"We can't take her," Dean says, then adds hastily, "We'll come back for her, Sam, we will, but dude…this is… I think for now we just need to…"

"Okay," Sam says, "okay, oh fuck. Okay."

Dean climbs up on the mower, which is still running, and Sam can see that his face is twisted in pain, his movements halted.

"You okay?" Sam asks, climbing up next to him, awkwardly, but Dean doesn't answer, just steps on the gas and screeches out of the orchard, Meg slumped and still against the tree behind them.

Sam can't tell if the wetness on his face is from tears or blood.

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter was meant to be longer, but I have been getting lots and lots of not-so-subtle hints that you all would probably prefer a chapter sooner rather than later, so this is a bit short. The next chapter will be up within the next few days, if all goes according to plan.**

Thank you for waiting!

:::

Sam can appreciate, abstractly, how funny this situation is: a scarecrow just tried to kill him, everyone in some lameass podunk town is really pissed at him, and he's six-foot-five and has got his arms wrapped around his brother's waist so he doesn't fall off the lawnmower that's currently doing twenty-five down a dark stretch of Indiana highway. It's hilarious. It's a funny situation. Sam knows this.

Okay, but it doesn't _feel _funny. For one thing, Sam has at least two broken ribs that are making it hard for him to get a full breath of air, and he's feeling lightheaded from the lack of oxygen as well as from the pain, which is just this side of excruciating. He's nauseous and sick-feeling on top of it, and the lawnmower isn't exactly a smooth ride, either, though Sam sure as hell isn't complaining, because just the fact that they have a ride at all is sort of something to sing about at this point. God bless Dean and his overdeveloped freaky mechanical genius.

Sam ducks his head down on his brother's broad back, as much to get out of the wind as just to reassure himself that Dean is there. If he was pressed to put a name to how he's feeling right now, it would be summed-up pretty well by _fucking traumatized. _

"You all right back there?" Dean bellows over the grumble of the mower and the roar of the wind, and Sam nods Yes against his shoulderblade, tightens his grip around Dean's waist.

He's not okay, though, doesn't know how to fight his way back to "okay"; and while there's a part of him protesting – pretty damn convincingly – that a drink would be a step in the right direction, there's another part that's waving its hands _NO _and dropping its mouth in astonishment and smacking itself on the forehead.

Sam tries, unsuccessfully, to process what just happened, but he's having some trouble, brain distracted by pain and wind and noise and the incessant clamoring in his head that's begging for a beer, or a shot of whiskey, or a fucking raspberry wine cooler, anything to help him get a handle on himself and what he did and didn't do.

The terror is still so fresh in his mind; the bone-numbing horror of realizing he was locked in a basement with a demon, a demon who knew his name and his family and everything about him, and he can still smell the musty cellar and hear the sound of his ribs snapping, can still see the moment her eyes went inky black. Can still – jesus – can still remember her mouth pressed hot against his own, can remember the way his body had responded to her touch.

He doesn't know when her body broke, Meg's body, if that was her name… doesn't know if it was the moment when he shattered her nose, or sometime before – demons aren't always careful with who they're wearing, he knows this – but it weighs on him, all the same. Her death. Jess's death. His mother's death. He's too tired and sick to remember how to disentangle these dead women, and for a moment he's stupidly glad that Dean is his brother and not his sister, because he'd probably be dead, too.

The ride seems to take forever, and Sam worries a few times that he's going to pass out – every time they go over a bump his chest becomes a screaming mass of pure agony and he has to clutch Dean to stay on the bike. He prays no cops come along, because he's pretty sure that riding a mower down the shoulder of a highway – about thirty five miles under the legal speed limit – is completely not allowed, not even in Indiana, and he's thankful when the few cars that pass them speed right by without slowing down.

Finally, they turn onto a college campus, right off an exit, and Dean drives the mower straight up onto the grass of a walkway and kills the engine. They're in a parking lot, softly lit by dim orange lights, and the Humanities building is straight ahead. Sam can't help but feel a twinge of deep, painful nostalgia, and for a moment he can almost smell the Stanford library, feel the crisp hush of pages under his fingers as Jess sits across from him, blonde head bent low over a textbook.

"Okay," Dean says. "The car's right here. Jesus, I need a cigarette."

Sam sees the Impala parked in front of them, and he really has to agree with what Dean's always going on about – she's the most beautiful, spectacular, fantastic car in the world. He lets go of his brother and eases himself off the mower, trying not to groan too loudly, one arm wrapped around his ribs. He always forgets how much this hurts. It's been a while since he's actually broken a rib – cracked, sure, all the time, but this, right now, is straight-up broken.

He stumbles towards the passenger seat, just wants to get back to the motel and crack a beer and take a few painkillers, pass out until the sun comes up and everything is visible, manageable. Then he remembers Dean can't follow, and turns back to where his brother's leaning on the mower, looking exhausted, mouth tight with pain.

"Sorry," Dean says, transfers his weight from the mower to Sam's offered shoulder. "Goddammit, I can't hold onto a pair of crutches to save my life. Am I cursed or something? Those were nice ones, too."

Sam helps Dean down the small embankment and eases him down onto the hood of the car, both of them groaning a little.

"How bad are the ribs?" Dean asks. "Do we need to worry about you puncturing a lung, here?"

"I don't think so," Sam wheezes. "Fuck, it hurts, though."

"More than two, you think? All in a row? 'Cause there's that thing Dad had once, with the ribs – chest flail. You don't want chest flail."

"No. I mean, I don't know. I doubt it. Can we just get back to the motel?"

"Yeah," Dean says, bends down and starts unlacing the boot of his good foot.

"What are you doing?"

"Fuckers took my keys," Dean grunts, slides a hand down his sock with a furrowed brow, then withdraws, grinning a little. "Luckily, I keep a spare."

"In your sock?"

"Would _you_ wanna look in my sock? You know how my feet get."

Sam wrinkles his nose. "That's smart."

"I'm smart," Dean agrees, pushes himself up from the hood with a wince, biting down hard on his lower lip.

"You okay?" Sam asks, but Dean ignores him, pulls himself around to the driver's seat and unlocks the door, slides inside and leans over to unlock Sam's door.

Sam eases himself in, taking it slow, ribs shrieking. Dean's snatched a pack of cigarettes off the dash and is shaking a lighter, begging it to work through teeth clenched tight around the filter.

"C'mon, jesus, c'mon, c'mon," he pleads, and the lighter obeys, sputters to life, the end of Dean's cigarette crackling. Dean lets the lighter drop from his fingers and takes a long drag, then another, head thumping back on the seat.

He smokes silently for a moment, exhaling plumes of smoke out of his still-open door, then settles the cigarette in his mouth and reaches over to the glove compartment, rummages around, comes up with one of the small Ziploc bags of Vicodin he stashes everywhere.

"Here," he says, tosses it on Sam's lap and starts the engine. "Take two and call me in the morning."

Sam's glad Dean makes such shitty jokes, because if he were to laugh right now he thinks maybe he'd die. He fumbles with the Ziploc, finds that his fingers are trembling violently, hands clumsy and huge against the small pills, and it takes him too long to get purchase on two of them and swallow them down with the bottle of water Dean hands him. The water is warm, and Sam's stomach lurches in protest as it hits, and he tries not to gag.

"You wanna pass me two of those?" Dean asks as he pulls out onto the highway, glances over as Sam struggles to get his shaking hands to cooperate. He waits a moment, then says, too gently, "Hey. Let me."

Sam passes the bag over, is glad it's dark in the car so Dean can't see the flush spread across his face.

Dean dry-swallows a couple pills, tucks the bag into his pocket, shakes another cigarette out of his pack and lights it carefully off the end of his first.

"So," Dean says, flicking the old butt out the window. "Demon."

"Yeah," Sam says, does his best to tell Dean what happened, keeps getting lost in his own sentences but manages to get the full story out. By the time he's done, he's shaking even harder, and sweat is dripping down his forehead. He wipes it with the sleeve of his jacket, wishes he could take a deep breath without wanting to kill himself, wishes he had a bottle in his hand.

"Jesus," Dean says, pulling into the motel parking lot. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "She _knew _us, man. And she wouldn't kill me. Said it was… going against orders."

"Orders," Dean repeats, rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Okay, so here's the plan. We're gonna deal with the scarecrow, and then we're think about demons and _orders, _all right? So… for tonight… we're just gonna sleep. Wake up real early tomorrow, wander around the orchard some, torch a couple old-looking trees. Hell, torch the whole fuckin' place. Then we'll think about figuring out who this demon is."

"Okay," Sam says, feels, for some reason, unspeakably grateful. It's too much, too much and he can't handle it right now, can't…

"Let's get inside," Dean says, and Sam extracts himself from the car slooooowly and carefully, painkillers finally kicked in, and heads around to the trunk where Dean's cane has been taking up residence, brings it around to his brother and hovers nervously as Dean limps slowly inside.

Sam eases himself down onto his bed, and Dean brings him a glass of water before locking the door and starting their nighttime preparations. He goes extra-heavy on the salt, and, after a moment's hesitation, lowers himself down onto the floor to sketch a devil's trap in permanent marker on the hideous carpet, good leg crossed underneath him, bad sprawled out awkwardly to his side. When he's done he makes a brief attempt at climbing to his feet, then just lies down on the ground next to his bed. Sam can only see the lower half of his body, face obscured.

"You need a hand up?" Sam asks, though he doesn't know how much help he'd be.

"Nah," Dean says. "Just lemme… just gotta rest a second."

Sam shifts a little on the bed, stomach roiling. He wonders if Dean still keeps a flask of whiskey in his duffle, wonders if he's somehow overlooked a bottle in his own bag. He had some beer stashed there a few days ago, maybe he left one behind…

He rolls his shaking fingers into fists, grinds his teeth and attempts to fight down the wave of panic that's trying to claw its way up his throat. He doesn't _need _a drink. That's what got him into this mess in the first place, and however bad he thinks he wants it, it's not worth ditching his brother and driving out into the night with a couple of broken ribs. Right? It's not. It's not.

"Okay," Dean says from the floor, and rises slowly until his head's in view. "Let's take a look at those ribs."

Sam watches as Dean hauls himself painstakingly to his feet, drags himself over to Sam's bed and lowers himself down, face pale.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asks. "Seriously."

"Fine," Dean says, flashes him a sharp smile. "Can you get your shirt off?"

He can, but only because it's button-up, and Dean's examinations hurt like a bitch, blunt fingers probing the bone, trying for gentleness but everything is painful.

"You broke your seventh and your tenth," Dean says eventually, then puts a careful hand to Sam's forehead. "Dude, you're sweating buckets."

"It's hot in here."

Dean drops his arm, picks up Sam's left hand. "You're shaking like crazy, look at this."

Sam bats him away weakly, ribs protesting the movement. "Quit it, Dean."

Dean regards him carefully for a minute, then pushes himself up to go and get a couple ice packs, lets Sam ease his shirt back on and press a pack to his chest before he says, "Your stomach hurt?"

"What's with the twenty questions?" Sam grumps, and Dean shrugs, gets himself over to his own bed and starts working his jeans off, then the brace. His knee is swollen to twice its normal size, and there are angry purple bruises blooming on his pale skin.

"Jesus," Sam says, thinks he might puke. "Dean."

Dean cracks an icepack and lays it on his knee with a grimace. "I'm gettin' too old for this shit," he says, in a perfect imitation of Bobby.

Sam suddenly needs to get up, to get away, so despite his ribs he climbs to his feet and stalks over to the door, checks the salt lines, then goes to where their duffles are sitting on the small tabletop. He's gotta – there's gotta be something. In a side pocket, maybe.

"Looking for something in particular?" Dean asks from the bed.

"No," Sam says, pawing through his clothes with increasing panic. There's nothing. Sam swallows hard, glances at Dean's duffle, at the pocket where he always keeps a flask.

"Just holy water," Dean says, watching him. "I just have holy water."

"Jesus," Sam chokes out. He can't leave. He won't leave. Look what happened the last time he left. He balls his hands into fists, feels like he's on the verge of tears.

"Hey," Dean says, pushes himself up against the headboard of his bed. "Sammy."

"No," Sam says, shakes his head, tries to clear it, tries to take a step back from himself and get a little perspective. "No, this is… this is good. I want – I want to stop. Okay? I wanna stop."

He does. He really does. Christ, drinking is the one thing that makes him feel like he's in control, puts a little power back into his life – and now he realizes that it, too, is completely _out_ of control. Everything's out of fucking control, everything. Except maybe – maybe this he can manage. Maybe this he can get.

"Okay," Dean says, a grin breaking out, though he's clearly trying to keep his face blank. "Okay, Sam, that's good. First step, man."

Sam gives a weak laugh, winces.

"Let me know if you start hallucinating," Dean adds, only half-kidding, Sam knows.

"Jesus, Dean, I'm not – it's not _that _bad."

:::

He's right, it isn't.

It's not good, though, and is made much, much worse by his broken ribs, since his nausea grows steadily and he winds up on his knees in the bathroom, dry-heaving into the toilet while Dean reads lists of detox symptoms off the internet and force-feeds Sam small sips of water every few minutes. His retching is quickly joined by tears of pain, because puking with broken ribs is possibly one of the most painful things he's ever felt, and he ends up sobbing and heaving into the basin, feeling like the most pathetic, stupid creature on the planet, until Dean disappears for about fifteen minutes and comes back with a half-empty bottle of Pepto Bismol, which he says he got off the night clerk.

The Pepto goes a little ways towards settling Sam's stomach, and while his nausea doesn't subside, the vomiting does, and he stretches out on his bed in a deeply unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable, wonders why the fuck he's putting himself through this when all he needs is one beer and he'd be fine.

Dean nods off around four a.m., _Clueless _playing quietly on the television, and Sam stares, half-hypnotized, as Alicia Silverstone flounces around L.A., buying clothes and flipping her hair and kissing her ex-step-brother. Sam's exhausted, can feel his exhaustion like a weight on his body and in his eyelids, but he can't fall asleep, is too nervous and tense. His heart feels like it's going twice its normal rhythm, banging against his sore ribs, and he can't remember the last time he was in so much pain.

He wonders, against his will, what Jess would think if she saw him now – a sweaty, pukey mess, hands shaking, face pale, a bag full of guns in one corner of the room and a knife under his pillow. This is so far from what she knows of him – although, in retrospect, he's always leaned on alcohol a little too heavily when things were rough, and she knew this about him, used to warn him how alcohol dependency runs in the family… since as far as she ever knew his father was just a lazy two-bit mechanic with a drinking problem. God, the things she didn't know about him could fill a whole leather-bound Encyclopedia set… but the things she _did _know… well, she knew things no one else ever had, things no one else had even bothered to wonder about. Things he doesn't think anyone else ever will know. He wonders if that makes up for anything, the knowing and the not-knowing. Wonders if the truth of Sam Winchester lies somewhere in between that continuum. Wonders who cares.

He starts moving, carefully, to get a glass of water, and Dean comes awake with a start from where he's sleeping propped-up against the headboard, his face screwing up in pain before his eyes are even open.

"Y'okay?" he asks, stares at Sam heavy-lidded. "Siddown, you want some water? Siddown."

"I got it," Sam says as Dean makes to get up. "You sit down."

"'M already down," Dean mumbles, but he obeys, leans back again. "I'm gettin' too old for this shit," he says, but he's not imitating anyone now, is speaking in his own voice.

"You're only twenty-seven," Sam says, an unreasonable jolt of fear spiking through his belly, and he sits on the bed next to Dean.

"Feel like I'm ninety," Dean groans, still half-asleep. "Ungh, I need a cigarette."

"No, you don't. Go back to sleep."

"You okay?" Dean asks again.

"Yeah," Sam says, and Dean reaches up a clumsy hand, pushes Sam's hair roughly out of his eyes. Sam can't help himself, leans into Dean's touch, didn't know he'd even wanted it.

"You're okay," Dean agrees after a moment's scrutiny, lets his hand drop to Sam's arm. His eyes slip closed again, breath goes even as Sam sits by him, listening to the hum of the highway and the steady sound of his brother sleeping.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Just so no one gets a shock at the end, I will tell you now that this is the last chapter of this story. Thank you all, as always, for your thoughtful and inspiring comments. You all motivate me so much. There is more planned in this 'verse, but I have a few other fic obligations I must fulfill first.**

**Merisha, sugarpie honey bunch, I hope this lived up to your hopes and dreams!**

:::

Sam finally manages to sleep for about an hour, between five o'clock and six, but he wakes with his heart jack-hammering in his chest, body drenched in sweat from a nightmare he can't remember. Dean is still asleep on the next bed, upright against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest and a frown creasing his forehead, as if he's dreaming about something that involves a great deal of concentration.

Sam moves quietly to the bathroom to get a glass of water, takes a spoonful of Pepto Bismol and hesitates over the bottle of Dean's painkillers. His ribs hurt like a bitch, but he doesn't know if it's a good idea to take the meds on an empty stomach, since he's really not in the mood for more vomiting. But the pain is bad, limiting his breath and making him feel even more tense and anxious than he already is, so he stands over the sink and tips out a couple pills, has to concentrate to keep his shaking hands from spilling them all over.

He'd thought, stupidly, that all it would take was sleep. Thought he'd close his eyes wanting a drink, and wake up the next morning free and clear. But apparently it doesn't work like that. The want is still there, just as strong, just as insidiously insistent, and he's still trembling, body racked with chills even while he feels sweat bead on his forehead. His head is pounding.

He takes a shower, doesn't have the energy to do much more than run a bar of soap over his body and blob shampoo on his hair, lets the hot water take care of the rest. He's not sure how long he stands under the spray, but he turns it off when it starts running cold, wraps himself carefully in a towel and dresses quietly, comes out of the bathroom to find Dean still asleep.

The shower helps, a little.

The light helps, too, an early morning glow filtering through the cheap white curtains, and he goes to open the windows, stares out at the parking lot. It's still overcast, but the cloud cover isn't as thick, and the sun burns through, bright and warm.

He hears a noise from behind him, half-groan half-yawn, and he turns to see Dean blinking over at him, eyes startling green above the dark smudges of fatigue.

"Hey," Dean says, his voice rough and graveled with sleep. "You get any rest?"

"A little," Sam says.

"How you feelin'?"

"Lousy."

Dean nods sympathetically, pushes himself up a little on the bed, and Sam can see his jaw clench down hard, can hear the noisy intake of breath through his nose.

Sam starts to ask if he's okay, then bites his tongue instead and heads into the bathroom for the Vicodin and a glass of water, snags the Actiq and puts it on the table next to his brother, hands him the water.

"Thanks," Dean says, swallows his pills and unwraps an Actiq, tucks it into his cheek and reaches down to peel off the wet, melted icepack from his knee. It's still badly swollen, and bruises are already yellowing around the kneecap.

"Fuck," Sam breathes. "What did you do?"

"Banged it," Dean says glumly. "Twisted it. Was mean to it."

"You better keep up with the ice," Sam says, heads over to the first aid kit and fishes out their last few icepacks, hands one to Dean and then settles himself on the foot of Dean's bed to press the other to his ribs, very, very gently, because even the lightest pressure hurts. At the touch of the cold pack, his body convulses ever-so-slightly, a tremor running from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and he almost drops the icepack.

"How're the ribs?" Dean asks, but Sam knows that's not all he's asking about.

"Hurts," he answers, runs the back of his hand across his damp forehead.

Dean makes a sad noise, twirls the Actiq in his mouth, checks his watch.

"It's seven oh five. We should pack our shit up and head out to the orchard."

"Yeah," Sam says. "How are we gonna know which tree to burn?"

"I'm pretty sure I know where it is," Dean says. "When I was, you know, coming to get you, I heard the sheriff holler for someone to cover the tree, and some guy ran in front of this big 'ol gnarly thing. I'm thinking that must be it."

Sam shifts the icepack higher up his ribcage, tries to fight back another shudder, stomach cramping painfully. Dean watches but doesn't say anything, just spits the Actiq into the garbage can and moves his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing for his cane.

He gets to his feet all right, but then tries to test his weight on his bad knee and goes pale, drops back onto the bed.

"Dean?"

"It's fine," Dean says, almost to himself, leaning over to where his brace sits by the side of his bed. "It was fine last night, just stiffened up while I was sleeping. Just need this."

Sam watches as he straps the brace on and then locks it, keeping his knee straight, leverages himself to his feet again and takes a clumsy, hopping step that has Sam wincing.

"Dude, I don't think you should be walking on that knee," Sam says, rising. "Sit down."

"I'm good," Dean says breezily, waves him off and attempts another hop-like movement that sends his free hand arcing through the air in search of something to hold onto. Sam steps forward quickly and Dean latches onto his arm, sways for a moment.

"Goddammit," he says. "Motherfucker."

"Sit down," Sam repeats, and Dean swears again.

"We have to pack this shit up and trek into a fucking orchard and burn a tree," Dean snaps. "I can't sit down."

"Dean," Sam says, patience suddenly _gone_. "I can't pack up if you're hanging on my arm like a fucking leech, so either you sit down of your own free will, or I knock you on your ass."

Dean drops Sam's arm like he's been burned, and Sam pushes a trembling hand through his hair, closes his eyes and tries to get back some control. "Sorry, I didn't mean – I just want to get this done. Okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says blankly. "But your ribs, dude, you can't—"

"We're mostly packed anyway, just gotta bring the stuff out to the car," Sam says.

"I don't know if you should be doing too much lifting," Dean says. "Why don't you just make sure the stuff's packed, and I'll take the duffels outside when you're done."

Sam is too tired and sick-feeling to tell if that makes sense, and his headache pounds behind his eyes, stomach surging. He's having a lot of trouble thinking his way through this shit, and he closes his eyes, hears Dean huff a sigh and ease himself back down onto the bed. He pats the side of Sam's knee a moment later.

"Sammy," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Pack your things, and I'll take them outside."

"Okay," Sam says. "Okay. Hang on."

Then he goes into the bathroom and throws up.

:::

Dean ends up doing most of the packing, hops awkwardly around the motel while Sam retches in the bathroom. His knee throbs steadily and he has to stop and rest a couple times, muttering pointless curses that even he doesn't really listen to. He only has one cigarette left, and he smokes it leaning on the wall just outside the room, the door flung wide open so he can hear Sam if he calls.

Sam doesn't call, just emerges eventually, grey-faced, his hair plastered to his forehead, one arm wrapped around his torso, all their toiletries packed away in the little green bag, which he holds out to Dean like it's the only thing he knows how to give.

Dean drapes himself with the duffles, and they make their slow way out to the car. When Dean props his cane on the trunk to start loading, his hand creaks as he releases it and he realizes how tight he was gripping. Jesus, he really is an old man.

"I'll drive," he says, because no way is he letting Sam get behind the wheel like this, confused and tense and shaking, and Sam just nods, climbs in and puts his head against the window, face tight with pain. Dean reaches across his brother's knees and gropes in the glove compartment for his nicorette, pops a piece into his mouth. He throws the car into reverse and wishes there were some kind of alcoholette gum that Sam could chew, something that tasted like gummi worms and sunshine instead of actual human shit, like his gum, which doesn't really do much besides take the barest edge off. But at least it does that.

"What are we going to do with Meg's body?" Sam asks as the Impala hits the highway.

"We should burn it," Dean says after a moment, slides an apologetic glance at his brother. "It's not your fault, Sammy. You know that, right? Demons are rough riders, that girl didn't stand a chance."

"Don't talk to me like I'm five," Sam snaps. "We're talking about a girl, not a fucking pet goldfish."

That doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but Dean tightens his jaw and doesn't say anything, just chomps down hard on his gum and concentrates on the road and not reacting to Sam's tone. Because Meg wasn't Sam's fault, and neither is the fact that he's being kind of a bitch.

They come up to the orchard around eight o'clock, and Dean thinks it's unfair that such a fucked-up place should be so beautiful, because the sun hovers just at the treeline and casts a rosy, shimmering glow over the dew-covered branches, limns them in gold, the fresh green of the leaves sparkling against the deep brown of the branches.

Dean feels uncomfortable, looking at that and knowing that they're about to destroy it. Wishes, for a moment, that the responsibility didn't fall on them.

He pulls the car up by the side of the road, about where he remembers the old tree to be, and he and Sam both extract themselves carefully from their seats, moving slow and hesitant. It would be funny if it didn't hurt so damn much.

Sam has two damp patches on the thighs of his jeans from where his hands had been resting, and his face is mushroom-sallow, glistening with sweat despite the chill in the air. He looks agitated and unwell.

"Okay," Sam says, licks his lips and folds his sweatshirt over his fist, scrubs at his face. "Tell me how to get there."

"Wait, you're not going without —"

"You're kidding, right?" Sam says, shakes his head in disbelief. "You're not coming, Dean. I am not about to haul you halfway across the orchard just so you can satisfy some messed-up idea about protecting me from a _tree_."

Okay, that was uncalled for. But Dean isn't really in any shape to be trekking around a field, and Sam's in no shape to be helping him, so.

"Fine," Dean says. "But listen, you're not burning the body without me, you hear?"

"What? Fine."

"You got your gun?"

"Yes, I have my gun."

"Take the sawed-off, too."

"Jesus," Sam mutters, but he stalks around to the back and gets the sawed-off.

"All right," Dean says, explains to Sam where he thought he saw the tree. "If you're not sure, burn it anyway," Dean advises. "Throw a little salt on there, and bring the propane, because it's been wet lately, so the wood might—"

"Dean, give it a rest!" Sam explodes. "I know how to light a fucking fire."

"I'm only—"

"Just shut up for one second, god, shut up," Sam says, squeezes his eyes closed and massages his temples with one huge hand, and Dean shuts up. They stand in silence, Sam breathing harshly through his nose, eyes still screwed shut, and then he lowers his hand, shakes himself, and says, "I'll be back." He sets off through the trees without another word.

Dean stares after him for a long moment, then goes back into the car and rifles through the ashtray to see if there are any half-smoked butts he could maybe do something about. He finds nothing, is left with ash all over his fingers and the crushing feeling that he is the lamest person on the planet.

He gets out of the car again, hobbles around to the hood and sits down, taps his bad foot on the wet pavement and tips his head back, gazes up at the mostly-blue sky. The air is chilly and very damp and makes him all too aware of the places in his body where bones have knit together imperfectly. He rubs his pounding knee, wonders if maybe he should get Sam to a doctor, check out those ribs, ask a couple questions about quitting drinking, like _Should he really be puking so much? _ Not that he has anything left to throw up. They haven't eaten since yesterday morning.

Dean's stomach grumbles loudly at that realization, and he grimaces. They'll stop and get something after they get the fuck out of here, which, please god, let that be soon. He doesn't know where the fuck they're gonna go, but anywhere that's not Indiana sounds perfect to him.

His phone rings, startling him, and he glances at the display before answering.

"What's up? You lost?"

"The body's gone," Sam says.

"What?"

"The body. Meg's body. There is no body."

"Wait, why are you – I told you not to—"

"Jesus, Dean, I was already out here, so I went over and – but she's not here, there are just ropes. And an earring, she was wearing earrings, and one of them, I've got one of them in my hand, and it's – I —" Sam breaks off, his anxiety palpable through the phone line. He sounds young, helpless, and Dean sits up straighter on the hood of the car.

"Sam," he says. "Sam, chill out man, okay? Chill out and tell me something: Did you burn the tree?"

"What? I – yes, I burned the tree, Dean, but—"

"Okay. Then get out of there right now."

"But—"

"Sam," Dean barks. Sam hates taking orders, hates it, but Dean has a feeling that it's exactly what he needs. "Get out _right now_."

There's a moment of silence until Sam says, "Okay," and Dean lets his breath out in a whoosh of relief.

"Come back to the car," he directs.

"Okay."

Dean hangs up, pushes himself to his feet and takes a few hopping steps towards the orchard, but quickly realizes the futility of it and sinks back down onto the Impala, gives himself about five seconds to have a mental mini-tantrum of frustration, then locks his jaw and waits for Sam.

Sam emerges just a few minutes later, even sweatier and shakier than he was when he went in, and Dean beckons him over impatiently, grabs his elbow before he can start blabbering the way Dean knows he's gonna.

"Listen," Dean says. "Whatever happened to the body, to the girl, there is nothing we can do, okay? Either someone from the town came to get the two people who got hooked by Freakshow last night, or – if that's not it, then christ, I don't wanna know. But whatever happened, it means someone's been hanging around, and we need to book it. _Now._"

"We can't just leave her, Dean, she – it's not – fuck, I don't—"

"The tree is burned, right?" Dean says. "You sure it's the right one?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "yeah, I'm sure, it was old, and there were – there was the tattoo—"

"All right," Dean says. "Okay. Get in the car."

Sam's arm trembles under Dean's grip, and Dean gets to his feet, pushes Sam gently towards the passenger seat. "Go."

Sam obeys, and Dean climbs in as soon as Sam's door slams.

"What if she wasn't dead," Sam says as Dean settles himself into the seat, "what if she was hurt, and she – what if the demon came back? What if—"

"She was dead," Dean says grimly. "I'm sorry, man, she was dead. I don't know what happened to the body, but I do know that we can't stick around to find out. It's not your fault, dude. But we gotta go."

Sam fumbles one shaking hand against the window, trying to get it open, his other arm bracing his ribs. "God," he says, closes his eyes briefly. "God, I need… I need…"

He trails off, and jesus, Dean doesn't want to hear this, really doesn't, but he says, "Dude. You can say it. Just… you can say it."

"I need a drink," Sam says, tilts his head forward so Dean can't see his eyes under his bangs, "I need a drink, I need – I don't care, I really need something, Dean, it's—this is not a good time to—"

Dean just nods, guns the car away from the orchard and keeps nodding.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," Dean says, flicks the turn signal.

"Can we – can we –"

"It's your call, Sam," Dean says. "I'm not tellin' you what to do, okay? If you want, we'll pull over as soon as we're out of the dry county, and you can get something. I'm not gonna like it, but I'm not gonna tell you what to do."

Silence, but for the rumble of the engine and the strains of a guitar over the lowered radio. Dean holds his breath, prays he's doing this right.

"Stop," Sam says finally, voice barely audible. "Stop, I need to stop somewhere."

"All right," Dean says, but his heart drops so far he's surprised it doesn't pop out his ass, and his mouth goes dry. He fucked up. He did it all wrong. Oh, jesus, what was he thinking?

They drive without speaking, Sam breathing shallowly in the passenger seat and Dean doing his best not to flip his shit, thinking fuck it, maybe he'll get a drink, too, even though it's only, what, nine o'clock in the morning? If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right? Christ, he needs a cigarette.

"Wait," Sam says suddenly. "Don't."

Dean feels his pulse quicken with irrational hope. "Don't what?"

"Don't stop," Sam says, looks like it's killing him to say it. "We don't need to stop, I don't wanna stop. I just – goddammit, why is this so hard?"

It's probably the wrong reaction to the pain in Sam's voice, but Dean can feel himself break out into a huge fucking grin, and he lets Sam see it, because _yes, _Sam said No! Dean's willing to bet that no D.A.R.E. officer has ever been as thrilled as he feels right now.

"It's the ethanol," Dean says in answer to Sam's (probably rhetorical) question, mostly to keep himself from saying something like, _Good boy, Sammy!_ "It's – the chemical binds to your neuron receptors or whatever, and sedates you, and when you stop it, you're – the opposite of sedated. Neuronically. I think."

"Christ," Sam says, chokes out a laugh. "That doesn't sound very scientific, Dean."

"I skimmed the article," Dean admits.

Sam grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, swallows hard. "You're not—god, I feel like I'm sixteen again—but—don't tell Dad about this, okay?"

"All right," Dean says. "C'mon, when've I ever told on you, huh? We gotta call him, though. Let him know about Meg."

"Yeah," Sam says, is quiet for a moment. Then, "Dean, where are we even going right now? Do we have – a job, or – a plan?"

Dean's pretty sure he knows where he's taking them, but he glances up at the highway signs anyway, does a quick perusal of the mental map he's got in his head. He's pointed the car towards South Dakota.

"We're headin' up to Bobby's."

"Bobby's?"

"We need some downtime," Dean says firmly. "Need a place where we can relax, heal up." _Where you can dry out in peace._ "My knee, dude, my knee is _fucked. _And your ribs are fucked. And—"

"Everything's fucked."

"Right. There's a demon out there who, for some fucked-up reason, knows all about us. Which is – yeah. So. We need some time. Do a little digging, figure out what's goin' on, give the Impala a tune-up... maybe play some mini-golf."

Sam grins and snorts, then instantly clutches at his ribs with a wince, but Dean doesn't regret making him laugh.

"You should probably call Bobby and tell him this plan," Sam says.

"Point," Dean agrees.

"He might not want us dropping in."

"He won't mind," Dean says with conviction. "He's been after us to visit for a while, anyway. I mean, who wouldn't want us, right? I'll help him fix up a couple junkers, cook him dinner, and you can talk to him about Victorian literature, or whatever the hell it is you talk about…"

That gets another, gentler snort, and Dean spares a glance at Sam, curled protectively around his broken ribs, a tremor evident in his shoulders, and Dean swallows, thinks about how he used to tie Sam's shoes and feed him mashed bananas, kind of can't believe that this is the same kid. Except he _can, _because when Sam is unhappy his face melts from twenty-two to five, and Sammy trying to keep it together with a skinned knee looks a hell of a lot like Sam trying to keep it together with the fucking_ shakes_.

"We're out of Burkitsville," Sam says suddenly, gestures to the sign that's already in the distance by the time Dean glances up.

"Excellent," Dean says with feeling. The whole fucked-up scarecrow case has left a bad taste in his mouth, demon notwithstanding, and he's happy to see the end of it.

He takes the first exit he can find for a gas station, and Sam frowns, picks his head up from where it's pressed against the cool glass of the window.

"What're you doing?"

"I need cigarettes," Dean says. "And we need to eat something."

Sam groans. "If I eat it's just gonna come straight back up."

"I'll pick up a coupla barf bags, too," Dean says, pulls up by the Qwik-E-Mart in front of the pumps. "You wanna wait in the car?"

"Dean, can you even – can you get around right now? On that knee?"

"Yeah," Dean says, with bluffed confidence. "It's feeling better than it was this morning."

It's not as stiff, so he's kind of telling the truth, but it still hurts like a bitch, and Dean locks the brace before he gets out of the car, takes it slow heading into the store. He buys two bottles of yellow Gatorade, a cup of coffee, three packs of cigarettes, a Hot 'n Ready breakfast sandwich for himself, and a can of chicken noodle soup for Sam, which he has the guy behind the counter heat up and put into a to-go cup for coffee.

Dean lights a cigarette as soon as he's out of the store, takes a moment to appreciate it, and then goes over to hand Sam the Gatorade and the soup through the open window, smiles approvingly when Sam cracks a bottle of the Gatorade and takes a long sip.

"I'm gonna finish this and call Bobby," Dean says, gestures to his cigarette and then to the benches in front of the store. "You wanna come out?"

"No," Sam says. "I'm just gonna stay in here."

As Dean could have predicted, Bobby pretends to grump about the prospect of putting them up for a week, bitches about Dean's smoking and Sam's eating habits and expresses dry surprise that Dean even had the courtesy to call before he showed, but Dean can hear the concern under Bobby's acerbic words.

"Last time you used the words _a little banged-up, _you'd been in and out of surgery for four months," Bobby says. "Please tell me this ain't that bad."

"No surgery here," Dean promises. "Sam's got a couple busted ribs, and my leg's been givin' me trouble, that's all." He'll explain about the demon when they get there. And he doesn't see any need to mention Sam's… stuff.

"Well," Bobby says. "I expect you to earn your keep. Got a whole junkyard full of engines just waitin' for you. Not to mention silverware needs polishin', floors need moppin', socks need darnin'…"

"Sam'll love that," Dean says. "Natural born wife, that kid." He grins while Bobby laughs, and adds, "Hey, we're in Indiana, so we'll probably be there in about ten hours, give or take."

"Good," Bobby says gruffly. "Be good to see you boys. Drive careful."

"We will, Bobby. Thanks."

Bobby hangs up, and Dean lights another cigarette, smokes and watches Sam dozing in the car, head pillowed on one arm, face finally somewhat relaxed, and Dean eats his breakfast sandwich mechanically and drinks his coffee and stubs out his cigarette and leverages himself to his feet, moves slow across the pavement.

He would've liked to have shown up at Bobby's in a better state than last time, and if it weren't for his fucking knee, he would be. But as it is, he feels like he hasn't made any progress since when he limped into Bobby's house all those months ago, fresh out of the hospital, and the way he's going to limp in tonight. He's going backwards instead of getting better, and Dean wonders if maybe it's time to listen to doctor's orders and take it easy for a while.

Sam stirs and grumbles when Dean climbs back into the car, and Dean feels bad for waking him. He needs sleep. But Sam sits up, wincing, scrubs a hand through his hair.

"Eat your soup," Dean says, gesturing to where the cup sits steaming between Sam's legs, and Sam takes a dutiful sip.

"You need me to drive?" Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head.

"I'm good, dude," he says. "Get some rest."

"The sun's too bright," Sam grumbles, but he's nodding off again about fifteen minutes after they get back on the freeway, like Dean knew he would. Sam's always slept better in the car than anywhere else, even when he was a colicky baby who wouldn't quit screaming.

Sam sleeps in fits and starts throughout the drive, sleeping for fifteen minutes and waking for an hour, then repeating the pattern. He never seems to completely settle, and sometimes Dean thinks it's nightmares that wake him, though Dean's afraid to ask. They stop once a few hours outside of Burkitsville so Sam can dry-heave out the open door of the car into a soybean field on the side of the highway, but other than that, Sam seems okay, is twitchy and shaky, but doesn't mention wanting a drink again, doesn't snap too much at Dean or freak out like he had in the orchard. They talk some, but Sam's distracted, loses his train of thought too easily, so eventually they lapse into a comfortable silence.

Dean, for his part, relaxes into the rhythm of the road, smokes out the open window and listens to an old Jimi Hendrix tape, quietly to spare Sam's head, and he wonders how he could ever give this up. The only time he's truly comfortable, the only time he doesn't feel that constant gnaw of anxiety and claustrophobia, is when he's driving. From somewhere to somewhere, in between it all. Real mobility, not the pseudo half-assed crap he has to deal with every day. Nothing to do except keep his eyes on the road.

He doesn't know how he could ever give this up.

:::

Bobby's dogs come running out to greet them as the roll up his long driveway, past heaps of beat-up, useless cars, glinting in the late evening light like the discarded husks of huge beetles.

Sam stands by guiltily as he watches Dean load himself up with the bags, but as much as he wants to help, the idea of the duffle straps going across his chest is enough to make him want to throw up again.

He can grab his brother's elbow, though, as Dean stumbles over the uneven ground – he can do that, and he can hold onto it as he helps Dean up the stairs, Dean grumbling and pretending to shrug him off even he leans into Sam's hand.

Sam had felt all right, for a few hours there, in the car, but now that he's up and standing he can feel the fretfulness creep back, and his ribs hurt so bad that it's a concentrated effort to keep his face in a pleasant expression as Dean knocks on the door.

Bobby comes to the door almost immediately, tugging his baseball cap down over his eyes to hide his smile as Dean grins and says, "Hey, Bobby."

"Hey yourself," Bobby says. "Get inside."

Bobby gives Sam a gentle pat on the back as he passes, and Sam wonders suddenly how much Dean told him.

Bobby's eyes track Dean's progress as he heads into the kitchen and dumps their duffles on the floor by a muddy pile of shoes. Sam watches, too, feels worry creep up in his throat to see how slow Dean moves, and he wonders if he can get Bobby to convince Dean to see a doctor.

"Thanks for puttin' us up," Dean says, leaning on the stove. "It's good to see you, Bobby."

"You boys thirsty?" Bobby asks, heads for the fridge. "I've got a couple beers with your names on them."

Sam freezes, and he sees Dean go rigid. For a few, tension-filled seconds, with Bobby looking his confusion back and forth between the two of them, Sam thinks he's going to have to accept, his whole brain screaming at him to say _Yes_ and take the fucking beer, get a little relief, make his hands quit shaking and get his brain on straight, and he wants to, god, he wants to so bad, but –

"Uh, how about straight-up holy water, hold the beer?" Sam manages, and he swears his brother's shoulders drop four inches.

"Me too," Dean says quickly. "Meds, you know."

Bobby quirks an eyebrow, but puts back one of the bottles he was taking out, hefts the other one. "I'll drink this," he says, "since I already opened it to put the damn holy water in there."

Sam and Dean down their shots of holy water without a splutter or a hiss, so Bobby claps them both on the back and ushers them into the living room, sits them down on the couch, and Sam does what he can to tell Bobby about Meg.

Bobby whistles when Sam is done, leans back in his armchair.

"Well, shit," he says.

Sam fervently agrees.

Bobby sighs, glances over at his huge bookcases, filled with old, cracked spines. "Looks like we got some research to do."

:::

They don't find anything that night, though Sam hadn't thought they would, and Bobby cooks them a huge, slightly mishmash dinner, bacon and eggs and pasta and a bowl of wilted lettuce that Bobby refers to as a salad, and Sam manages to get down some pasta with butter before the nausea kicks in and he stops, folds his shaking hands under the table and tries to breathe through it.

"You feelin' all right?" Bobby asks, laying down his knife. "You haven't looked so good since you walked in here, no offense, and usually I'm fightin' to keep my dishes from disappearing into that black hole you call a stomach."

"I think I'm coming down with the flu," Sam says, which is kind of how he feels, so it's not a complete lie.

"Just don't sneeze on me," Bobby grumbles, but after dinner he makes Sam drink some sort of pungent tea, tells him it's good for the stomach.

Dean's dosed himself heavily with painkillers and has been staying seated as much as possible, but when he does get up, Bobby and Sam both watch him with eagle eyes, and it's nice to have Bobby there to shoulder some of the worry.

"His leg always this bad?" Bobby asks as he's washing up, Sam at the table waiting for his painkillers to kick in, Dean outside having a smoke. "He told me it'd gotten better."

"He fucked up his knee yesterday," Sam says, feels a flash of fury, though at whom, he's not quite sure. "I mean, I think it has gotten better, a little – sometimes it's all right. Sometimes it's not. He – he won't stay the fuck _off _it, won't let it heal. So it just keeps getting worse."

Bobby shakes his head, lips tightening. "Idjit."

"Tell me about it," Sam mutters.

Dean shows his stubbornness that night, when Bobby and Sam try and get him to sleep on the couch to spare him the trek up the steep stairs, and he refuses, claiming that the couch is gonna mess with his knee even worse than the stairs, and he'd rather sleep in a real bed.

Sam knows his brother just wants to keep an eye on him, but it pisses him off, and he blows upstairs without offering to help Dean up them, opting instead to stomp around the room they're sharing and haphazardly unpack the duffles Bobby'd carried up for them. He undresses and lies down on his bed, fists clenching and unclenching, teeth grinding.

If he could throw a tantrum right now, he probably would, he thinks, and it's really fucking hard to forget that downstairs Bobby's got a fridge full of beer and a cabinet full of liquor. _That's _the reason why Dean wants to stay in the room with him, he knows, and he's not sure if he's angry because his brother's an overprotective asshole who doesn't trust him, or if angry because Dean's going to make it a lot harder to sneak downstairs for a drink if he needs to.

His irritation subsides a little, though, when Dean appears in the doorway, his breathing harsh and a fine mist of sweat dewing his face.

"Those stairs're killer," Dean comments, limps over to his bed and frowns at the place where Sam's dirty socks have accidentally landed on his pillow.

"Sorry," Sam says, and Dean chucks the socks at his face then lowers himself down with a groan. He must have changed downstairs, because he's barefoot, wearing his boxers and the worn t-shirt he uses for pajamas. He leans down and starts unstrapping his brace, ripping Velcro, unscrewing things Sam doesn't understand.

"How you doin'?" Dean asks. "You feelin' any better?"

"Maybe a little," Sam lies.

"I'm sorry," Dean says after a moment. "I forgot about Bobby's beer thing. And I forgot there'd be… so much, here."

"It's okay," Sam says, hopes he's telling the truth.

Dean yawns, blinks, his eyes bloodshot and his face drained. He looks completely exhausted. "Hey, you remember the last time we slept in this room?"

"Yeah," Sam says, half-smiles. "Dad was in Minnesota, looking for a… werewolf?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "You were what, eight? And you would not shut the fuck up and let me sleep. Bobby had to keep banging on the door to try and get you quiet."

Sam remembers that. "So you decided you were going to outtalk me – you just babbled nonsense for like, the whole night."

"Shitty plan, though, 'cause you _loved _it. You ate it up. I couldn't speak the next day, I was so hoarse," Dean says. "I swear to god, Sam, I have never met a kid that jabbers as much as you did."

"You've never met another kid," Sam points out.

"Yeah, well, you were enough, lemme tell you." Dean yawns, starts shifting so he can pull the covers over his body, gets a pillow under his knee and eases himself down. "I can still outtalk you," Dean says, and there's a hint of threat in it.

"I know," Sam says.

"I've gotta get some sleep," Dean says, and his eyes are already drifting closed. "But you – wake me up if you need anything. I don't care, Sam, okay? Just wake me up."

"You want me to turn off the light?"

"Whatever," Dean says. "Wake me up."

"I will," Sam promises, climbing to his feet and crossing the room, flicking the light switch.

He makes his way back to his own bed, climbs under the covers, tucks his trembling hands into his armpits and tries to ignore the way his stomach's cramping up on him. He's wiped out, but doesn't think he'll be able to sleep, not with his heart beating like this, his head still aching. Not with a booze-filled kitchen just below him. God, it would be so easy, so, so easy and so good, to go downstairs and—

"Sam," Dean's voice comes from the darkness. "You're – I'm – I'm proud of you, dude. Seriously. I – you're a good kid."

"'M not a kid," Sam protests, knowing he should feel patronized, but he can't help but smile a little at Dean's words. Even when they're both toothless and grey-haired, Dean's gonna think of him as a kid, probably gonna treat him like a kid. Is going to boss him around and bitch at him and try to protect him at the stupidest, most inconvenient times.

And even as Sam rolls his eyes into the dark, the thought soothes him, tamps down something in his chest, something jagged and ugly.

He thinks maybe he will be able to sleep, after all.

THE END


End file.
